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e Seaside Library. Pocket Edition. Issued Tri-weeldv. By SubscriDtion S36 per annum, 
jhted 1883, by George Miinro.— Entered at the Post Office at New York at second class rates— Jan. 12, II 



AFTERNOON, 



OTHER SKETCHES, 






CONTENTS: 

PAGE. I PAGE' 

AFTERNOON 3 IN PITTI 9T 

AT CAMALDOLI , . . 70 1 



NEW YbRK : 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 37VANDEWATER STREET. 



AFTERNOON. 

A COMEDY. 

Cloth of gold, do not despise 

To match thyself with cloth of frieze. 

DEAMATIS PERSONS. 



Philip Dormer, Earl L'Es- 

trange. 
Marquis of Ipswich {son of the 

Duke of Lowestoft). 
Principe Carlo SANFRLAJifO. 
Aldred Dorian. 



DUCA Dl MONTELUPO. 

Claire, Madame Crlyon. 
Laura, Pnncipessa Banfriano, 
Lady Cowes. 
Countess of St. Asaph. 
Marchesa Zanzinl 



Other minor 'persons. 

SCEN^E I. 

The long arbutus alley in the grounds of the Villa Imdovisi 
in Borne. 

Present : L'EsTKAK"GE and Ipswich. 

L' Estrange. Not to feel the Ludovisi Juno! What an 
utter Philistine you are! 

Ipstvich. Well, it's a big stone head. If you hadn't 
told me, I should have thought it was some severe mother- 
' in-law of some dead Caius or Valerius. 

V Estrange (lights a cigar). How right Matthew Arnold 
is! What absolute, shameless, besotted blockheads En- 
glish Philistines are! 

Ipswich. One can't be a pillar of light like you, and 
adore marble dolls and pictures as brown as a cocoa-nut, 

L' Estrange. Can a ** pillar " " adore "? Confine your- 
self to Pall Mall jargon. You are only intelligible then. 



4: AFTEKNOON. 

Ipswich. But I say now, tell me, what do you a&sthetes 
see in that big bust? 

V Estrange. What is the use of telling you? It is the 
purest ideal of womanhood that we possess. 

Ipswich {murmurs). I prefer Jeanne Granier! 

L'Estrange. It is the symbol of chastity, dignity, ma- 
ternity, sovereignty. It is divine. It should be set in 
the center of St. Peter's, and have the church dedicated 
to its worship. Almost I become a Comtist before that 
glorious incarnation of woman! If you had any mind or 
soul, you would feel so too: if you are a mere lump of 
flesh, clothed by Poole, you can never understand it, let 
it be explained "to you how it may. 

Ipswich. A lump of flesh! // When Fve won the 
Grand Military three times running! 

L' Estrange {with scorn). A steeplechase is your limit 
and conception of the divine! 

Ipswich. Oh, I say, it's not to be sneezed at; and you 
ride hard enough yourself sometimes at home. 

L' Estrange. To ride is one thing; to tear over hurdles 
in a monkey's silk jacket, with all the scum of the betting 
ring cursing you as you break your beast's back in a 
ditch, is another. Who is that coming yonder? . She 
knows you. 

Ipswich. That is the Princess Sanfriano — such a jolly 
little cat! 

L' Estrange. Surely not Italian? 

Ipswich. Canadian. Awfully nice. She don't get on 
■ with her husband; but, herself, she runs pretty straight 
as yet. She'd no end of money; which the caS married 
her for, of course. 

Princess {coming close to them). Lord Ipswich! Are 
you actually " doing Kome" like Cook's cherubs? 

Ipswich. Princess, will you allow one of my oldest 
friends to have the honor? [Introduces them.'\ 

Princess {to L'Estrange). Have you been long in 
Kome? I don't remember to have met you, and we all 
- meet fifty times a week somewhere. 

L' Estrange. I came last night only; but I always shun 
society in Kome. 

Princess. Good gracious! Why? 

Ipswich. He thinks it profanity here — money-changers 
in Temple, you know; that sort of feeling. 



AETERNOON. 5 

Princess. I see. Well, he will commit his first blas» 
phemy at my house to-morrow. Mind you bring him». 

L' Estrange {murmurs sulkily). Too kind — charmed^ 

Princess {continues). And as reward you shall see my~ 
beautiful and famous friend, Madame Glyon. She never 
goes out, so you can't see her anywhere else. 

L' Estrange {interested). Not the artist? 

Princess. Certainly, the artist. But prepare yourself; 
^ she is as lovely as she is clever. You have seen the things 
she can do? 

L'Estrange {with a little shudder). The things ! Cer- 
tainly, Princess. I never miss the Salon, and the grand 
landscapes of Madame Glyon are one of the few spiritual 
and yet perfectly faithful works that the age has afforded . 
us. 

Ipswich. He praises something modern at last! Rome 
will fall! Do you know, Princess, he has been boring me 
all morning about the big head in there; it appears to me 
to have a '* front" like my landlady in Duke Street, and 
wear the severity of countenance suitable to a Dame at. 
Eton. 

Princess. The Ludovisi Juno? Ah! I can't see much 
in it; but Madame Glyon raves about it. 

L' Estrange. If you will allow me, I will go and rave 
again also at the goddess's shrine, for I find I left a vol- 
ume of Winckelmanii in the gallery. 

Princess. Is that the L'Estrange? 

Ipswich. What do you mean ? 

Princess. I mean the one who was such a brute to his 
wife. 

Ipswich. Brute! K"onsense, my dear Princess; he made 
a horrible mistake, tried to remedy it, and failed. 

Princess. He hilled her I 

[Ipswich laughs out loud. 

Princess {very severely). Oh! we know very well men - 
never kill with neglect, or ill- temper, or insult! I say he 
killed her; killed her as much as if he had danced on her 
in Lancashire clogs, or put arsenic in her sherry. Why, 
he used to write notes to her about the wrong'^way she 
held her teacup! 

Ipswich. Well, why not? He married a little peasant. 

Princess. She was a gardener's daughter; Tennyson has 
sanctified that. 



6 AFTERNOON". 

Ipswich. She was a gardener^s daughter, and lie saw 
her first hoeing potatoes. 

Princess. Pi n eapples ! 

Ipswich. Potatoes! Princess, excuse me, but people 
don't hoe pineapples, and she — was — hoeing ! 

Princess. Very well, if she were? She didn't brain 
-liim with her hoe! She didn't ask him to marry her. 

Ipswich. That was his Quixotic chivalry. He has re- 
pented it ever since. 

Princess. Do yoHi mean to say be has redeeming grace 
enough in him to feel remorse? 

Ipswich. Oh, remorse! Come, I say! That is rather 
strong. 

Princess. He ought to be haunted to his dying day. 
The Lords ought to have impeached him and hanged him 
in Palace Yard. 

Ipswich. Gara mia,he reasonable! What did he do? 
You can't have heard the right story. He married the 
Trench peasant when she was fifteen — beautiful as a 
dream, that I grant, but ignorant! .... Lord, you 
don't believe me, I see; but I assure you she tried her 
gloves on her feet, and asked the servants to warm her 
first ice! 

Princess {severely). Not reasons to divorce a woman. 

Ipswich. Divorce? Who talked of divorce? He bore 
it all like an angel. 

Princess. While he was in love. Exactly. Then in 
six months' time all the blunders and the innocence that 
had seemed to him so divine, grew stupid, ugly, unendura- 
ble, I know, and she was sacrificed to the petty shame of 
a capricious young man who knew nothing of any passion 
save the basest and most fleeting form of it. 
i Ipswich. Not at all — nothing of the kind. Of course 
he began to see that he had done a thing that put him in 
a hole; that it was out of the question to take her about 
in London at all; of course he remembered his position. 

Princess. The one god of the Englishman! 

Ipswich. Then there was his mother— wild. 

Princess. I can imagine the British matron under such 
circumstances! Poor Claire! 

Ipsivich. How did you know her name? 

Princess. 1 was at the convent he sent her to — the 
beast! I was a good deal younger than she (we always say 



AFTEKNOON. 7 

that, you know), and I was struck by her beauty, by her 
despair, by her history — as any child would be. 

Ipswich. And she really did — kill — herself? 

Princess. He really did kill her, if you want to speak 
the truth. They could do nothing with her, naturally; 
she was sunk in apathy and misery; nothing roused her; 
and when she drowned herself, be was as much her mur- ^ 
derer as though lie had killed her with his own rifle. 

Ipswich. My dear Princess! How could he ever fore- 
see it? 

Princess. If he had had two grains of sense, a pin's 
point of a heart, he would have known it! Can you wor- 
ship a woman for six months and make her mistress of all 
you possess, and then turn her off to be a schoolgirl in a 
convent? 

Ipswich {doggedly). I don't see what else he could do. 
Of course in two years' time or so he would have taken her 
back. I don't see how he could have stood the chaff of 
London if he had gone on living with a Touraine peasant 
girl who didn't know the common ABO of manners 
and- 

Princess {passionately). You will excuse me,.. Lord 
Ipswich, but / prefer the veriest Don Juan of them all to 
such a cold-hearted, paltry-spirited truckler to conven- 
tionalities. I say I prefer Mephistopheles himself! I can 
tell by the look of him that this wretch never cared a 
straw. He is as cold as a Canadian winter, and as self- 
engrossed as 

Ipswich. Well, you know it's eleven years ago. A fel- 
low can't wear crape on his hat all his life. 

Princess. Lord Ipswich, I hate you. Go and ask if 
my carriage is at the gate. I see my friend at the end of 
the alley, and I want to speak to her alone. "^ 

Ipswich. Why, she's living in your own house. Surely \ 
you'll let me stop, and send that boy sweeping yonder f or ^ 
your carriage? 

Princess. How should that boy know my carriage? Go 
directly, or never venture to bow to me again. 

Ipswich. Dread and unjust lady, I fly! 

Princess. How glad I am to be rid of him! All this 
distance off, I can tell she has something to say to me, 
and this morning it can only be — Well, my dearest dear! 
You look pale. 



8 AFTEKNOON. 

Mme. Glyon enters; she looks grave, a little agitated; she 
seats herself on a stone bench beside the Prikcess. For a 
moment she does not speak. 

The Princess {eagerly and anxiously). You have seen 
that man? 

Mme. Gltok gives sign of acquiescence ; then, in a low _ 
voice, says: 

You knew he was in Eome? 

Princess. No — no — no! Good heavens! as if I would 
not have told you! But when did you see him? how? - 
where? He was talking here with Ipswich a moment 
since. 

Mme. Glyon. He was entering the sculpture gallery as 
I came out. [Her voice is faint and grave. 

Princess. And you said nothing happened? 

3Ime. Glyon. What should happen? 

Princess. Much. If I were you! 

Mme. Glyon {smiling slightly). You and I are very un- 
like, my dear. I have seen him often in the streets of 
Paris, and even in the Salon before one of my own pict- 
ures; it is nothing new; nothing to wonder at; only — 
only 

Princess {striking her sunshade into the earth). Only — 
scoundrels have the power to torture good women when 
they have lost all title even to be remembered by them. 

Mme. Glyon {dreamily). I do not think he has a gray 
hair yet; and I, how many? 

Princess {with scorn). I dare say he dyes! 

Mme. Glyon {indignantly). Ridiculous! He never cared 
in the least how he looked, and he is not a ci-devant beau 
vOf sixty. 

[^Her voice gives way and she bursts into tears. 

Princess {sympathetic and yet angry). Oh, my darling, 
I know how you feel; and yet, how can you feel anything? 
You must be a very much more forgiving woman than I! 
I should hate him, loathe him, abhor him! I should tear 
his eyes out of his head — I should make him scenes where- 
ever I met him, so that he would grow afraid of his very 
shadow! 

Mme. Glyon {with an effort). Like the deserted mistress 
of the stereotyped boulevard novel! I am quite sure you 
would do nothing of the kind, Laura. 



AFTERNOON. \) 

Princess. I should ! Or probably I should have shot 
him long ago. 

Mme. Glyon. Quel melodrame ! You are very violenfc 
to-day. 

Princess. Because that idiot Ipswich has been haying 
the impudence to defend him. 

Mme. Glyon. Yon spoke of me? 

Princess. We spoke of L'Estrange's marriage and of 
his conduct to his wife. Ipswich is his friend. He made 
lame excuses. It has left me rabid for the day. I tell 
you, my dear, I have not your divine foi^giveness! 

Mme. Glyon (ivith coldness.) Who told you I forgave? 
Not I. 

Princess. Your conduct! Patient Grizel was never 
gentler. 

Mme. Glyon. You do not read character very well, 
Laura. You have been the best of friends to me, my 
love, but I think you have always taken me on trust. 
You have never understood what I felt or why I acted. 

Princess. Oh no; you are like the Ludovisi Juno to me. 
I gaze; I try to admire; I am dumb; I fail to comprehend. 
I cannot appreciate the Colossal. 

Mme. Glyon {with a tired smile). Am I colossal? I am 
as unconscious as the Juno herself. 

Princess. Colossal! You are supernatural! Now, if 
yon had torn his coat off his back in that gallery, you 
would have been human and akin to one. 

Mme. Glyon {sternly). Do not talk in that fashion, 
Laura. It is quite unworthy of you, and you do not 
mean it. 

Princess. I do, 

Mme. Glyon. At all events, spare me the expression 
of your sentiments when they take that color. Mean- 
while, do something else for me. You are intimate with 
Lord Ipswich. Learn from him if — if — his friend stays 
long at Eome. Because if he do, I will returq to Paris 
and come to you some other time. 

Princess {rapidly). I know he is going away directly — 
Asia Minor, I think. {Aside. I never dare tell her I 
Iiave asked him for to-morroW night!) But, if you have 
passed him so often in Paris, it can't hurt you so very 
much to pass him in Eome! 

Mme. Glyon {in a low tone). It hurts me always. 



10 AFTERNOON. 

Princess {kisses her hand ivith effusion). Oh, my dear 
Claire, forgive me! [ am a wretch, and, of course, I am 
quite incapable of understanding you. What does the 
proverb say? Fools, you know, always rush in where 
anybody else would be afraid to tread. 

JEnter Ipswich. 

Ten thousand pardons if I've seemed ages, but your 
people were right down at the end of Via S. Basilio. 

Princess. Thanks. I must be off. I've got the Japan- 
ese Legation to breakfast, and it's one o'clock now. 

Ipswich. Let me go to the gates with you. {Aside to 
the Feii^ CESS.) Is that your great artist? What a beau- 
tiful creature! 

Princess. You shouldn't say so to me, as she is the pre- 
cise opposite of everything I am! But she is very hand- 
some. I can't introduce you, for she won't know stran- 
gers, and she hates Englishmen. 

[Exit from the alley ; Mme. GtLYON" a little 
behind the Princess and Ipswich. 

Scene II. 

Drawing-room, Palazzo Sanfriano. 

Present: The Princess, Mme. Glton, Lady Cowes, 
Marchesa Zanzini, Ipswich, various minor person- 
ages. It is six o'clock. Tea on a gueridon. 

Lady Cowes {ivhispering to M. Zanzini). Such a dear 
creature, the Princess; but she always does know such 
queer people! 

Marchesa. Who you mean? La Glyon? Oh, but an 
artist, you know — that excuse everything! 

Lady Cowes, In a studio, perhaps. Not in a drawing- 
room. 

Marchesa (laughing). Ah, you dear English! You are 
always so ironed — I mean, so starched! For me, I care 
for my own house; bub I care not who I meet other peo- 
ple's. 

Lady Cowes. But the Princess introduces her! 

Marchesa, What if she do? The new woman must 
call first. You not return her card. That very simple. 
Everything stop there. 



AFTERNOON. 11 

Lady Goices, Bnt the Princess would never forgive it! 

Marchesa (stolidly). Pooh! What matter what a little 
hastardo American like or no like^ 

Lady Cowes (shocked). Oh, dearest Marchesa! Indeed, 
indeed, the poor Princess was not — was not what you say. 
She was nobody, indeed; but I am sure her parents were 
quite respectable, and very rich. Indeed, my son, when 
he was fishing in Canada, dined with them! 

Marchesa (shaking loith laughing). Ah, ah! and the din- 
ner is the sacrament of respectability; is it not so? But 
I mean not what you think. Bastardo with us, that mean, 
what you call it, mongrel — not born — ne derien — how you 
say it? 

Lady Goives (still shocked). Yes, yes; I see; quite so; 
you speak English so beautifully, Marchesa! Ah, dear 
Lady St. Asaph is over there. 

[Rises and goes to that end of room. 

Marchesa (to Ipswich). Come here and recount me of 
the stipple-chase. You won, they tell me; is that so? 

Ipswich. Yes; after a fashion. I rode an awful screw. 

Marchesa. Screw? There is corkscrew; there is screw 
to a steamship; there is screw that you put into wood; 
how you can ride a screw? Tell me. 

Princess (passing by). Marchesa, he will call you a 
purist. 

Marchesa. Ah, my dear, as you are here, tell me, who 
is your friend La Glyon? 

Princess (colors a little). She is Madame G-lyon. Surely 
you have heard of her? 

Marchesa. My child! She is one of those of whom one 
hoars fifty thousand things every five minutes, but per- 
haps none of them may be very true things. That is why 
I ask you (because Lady Cow do ask me) who was she, 
whence comes she, who was M. Glyon — or, it maybe, who 
is he? 

Princess, She is a widow. Forgive me, there are peo- 
ple coming in. 

[Escapes to receive neio-comers. 

Marchesa, She not care to talk about her. That is ill. 
I will ask Carlino. 
IpsmicJi. Who is he? 
Marchesa, Sanfriano. Carlino!-^ 



12 ArTERKOOlf. 

Sanfriano, March esa ? 

Marchesa, Who is La Glyon, your wife's friend? I spik 
English because queste gente they not spik Italian. 

Ipswich. I'm afraid we haven't often such good man- 
ners in return! 

Marchesa, Pooh! We not come to you tor manners; 
we come to you for morals ! Carlino, answer me, who is 
LaGlyon? 

Sanfriano, On my honor, I do not know. She was at 
the same convent with Laura in Paris. They are great 
friends. 

Marchesa, And who was Monsieur Glyon? 

Sanfriano. That I cannot tell you. A scoundrel, I be- 
lieve, who married her when she was very young. You 
know, of course, that she is a great artist? 

Marchesa. You never ask the Principessa more? 

Sanfriano. I never ask the Principessa anything; quite 
content if she return the compliment. There is the Oali- 
fornian beauty. Look at her. Is she not adorable? Fresh 
as a daisy; white as a lily! 

[He goes to greet the Calif ornian beauty. 

Marchesa. There is something bad. I shall not send 
her a card to my ball. 

Lady St. Asaph. How do, Marchesa? How are your 
sweet little grandchildren? They were quite the stars of 
the babies' ball at our embassy. Do tell me — {drops her 
voice) — you know everything. Lady Cowes has been mak- 
ing me quite uncomfortable about that Frenchwoman 
over there, who is staying with the Princess. She says she 
is — well, you know, not at all what one likes to meet where 
one visits. Is it true? 

Marchesa, I shall not send her card for my ball; San- 
friano think not well of her; her husband, he disappear; 
not a soul know who she was. 

Lady St. Asaph. But it is intolerable of the Princi- 
pessa! I am grieved I brought my girls. 

Marchesa {grimly). She will not eat dem. She only get 
all the men round her. 

Lady St. Asaph. Perhaps she is separated! 

Marchesa. Cat is very likely. Why not? 

Lady St, Asaph. But it is horrible, scandalous! 
Couldn't one speak to the French embassador? 

n Estrange {to Princess). Dear Principessa, will you 



APTERNOON". 13 

not do for me the kindness that you denied me the other 
night? 

Princess (nervously). Madame Glyon never makes new 
acquaintances. 

U Estrange. But ^he and I should have so many themes 
of talk in common, and honestly, I admire her pure and 
wonderful genius so greatly. 

Princess {pettishly). Oh, she is bored to death with 
people praising her genius. 

L' Estrange. Un discerning praise, perhaps. Nothing 
more wearisome; but 

Ipswich, But this Kuskin of the drawing-room; this 
St. James Street prophet; this aesthetic of aesthetics, who 
sees no excellence out of Lit>nardo, will give her a very 
different thing to vulgar compliment. 

UEstrange {coldly). Certainly; I should presume to 
offer her sympathy. 

[At that moment Mme. GlyoisT, who is at the tea-table, 
has the lace at her wrist caught by the spirit-flame of 
the silver kettle; her sleeve takes fire. L'Estrajs'GB 
is qiLicker than anyone : he extinguishes the burning 
lace with his handkerchief, and is slightly burnt in the 
palms of his hands. Mme. GLYOi^ says nothing, bvi 
sits doivn and groivs very pale. Buzz of excitement 
from others round them. * 

L'Estrange {smiling). Indeed, I am not hurt. The 
skin scorched — notliing more. Madame Glyon, fate has 
been kinder to me than the Princess, I have implored m 
vain a presentation to you. Will you not allow the kettle 
to be my sponsor? If you will not, I assure you that I 
will pour vitriol on my fingers and declare that I am 
crippled for life by saving you! 

Mme. Glyon {bows coldly)^ I have to thank you for 
great presence of mind. I fear you are hurt yourself. 

L' Estrange. Would that I were! But, at all events, 
let the kettle's misdemeanor allow me to introduce myself, 
and — will you not at least give me a cup of tea? 

Mme. Glyon {she pours him out a cupful as she speaks), * 
As you please. [He seats himself at t^te table. 

Lady Gowes {to Lady St. Asaph). Is it not extraor- 
dinary, my dear Anne, how women of that kind of char- 
acter always attract men? 

Lady St. Asaph. Because they lay themselves out for it! 



14 AFTERNOON. 

Marchesa Zanzint Ah ha! And what do your girls do 
at your lawn-tennis? I not wish to know La Glyon, but 
I am quite sure she never jump about in jersey with per- 
spiring man in shirt! 

Lady Cowes (to Lady St. Asaph). How anxious the 
little Princess looks because Lord L'Estrange has got at- 
tracted by that woman! But why does she have her here? 
Is it because — (mysteriously) — because the Prince compels 
her to be civil, do you think? 

Lady St, Asaph (also mysteriously). It can hardly h& 
that. You know he would not be allowed by the Duchess ' 
Danta. She holds him so close. 

Lady Cowes, Then, what can it be? She was at the 
same convent as the Princess. Is it possible she knows 
of any school-girl imprudence, and therefore has to be pro- 
pitiated? i 

Marchesa Zanzini, Suppose that it only just is that 
they do like each other? 

Lady St. Asaph (with a sour smile), I don't think that's 
possible! Why, when they are together she actually kills 
the little Princess, overtops her, washes her out! No; there 
must be a reason for the friendship. We will hope that it 
is a good one. 

Marchesa (with a chuckle). And pray that it is a wicked 
one, eh? Oh, look not so scandalized. Good reasons, they 
give other folk no diversions! I cannot endure them my- 
self. 

Lady Cowes, You are cynical, Marchesa! 

Marchesa, Ah no! It is not me who have ever the 
spleen! 

Lady Cowes. To be sure — of course; your lovely sun, 
no fog, no east wind; who cow^cZ be ill-natured in Italy? 

Marchesa, To be certain, nobody, unless they bring 
with them their ill-nature in the train, as they do bring 
their umbrellas, and their sponges, and their — how you 
call it — portable baths? 

Ipsivich (aside, laughing). How merciless you are, Mar- 
chesa! 

Marchesa (aside). Ah! that Miladi Cow, she make me 
impatient. It is just that she want Milord L'Estrange 
for her daughter Luisa. La Glyon, she is nobody; I not 
know her myself; but she is handsome, and to men she 
is cold. See! she leave L'Estrange now and go and talk 



AFTERN^OOl^. 15 

to that old Monsignore instead. Your friend, he look 
gloom — how you say it?— glum? He not like to heplante 
Id alone with the teacups! 

Ipsivich (with surprise). She does seem uncivil to him. 

Marchesa {with sarcastic smile). You Englishmen, you 
so spoiled by your own women, you think any woman who 
not throw herself at your head uncivil. Your women are 
forward, antl that is always bad. It spoil men. 

Ipswich {ivith a sigh). Well, they do butter us, and 
come after us, too much at home, that's true. You can't 
get away from 'em anywhere. 

Marchesa (grimly). Poor creature! You honey; they 
flies. Now here, it is we are the honey. That is pret- 
tier. 

Ipswich, Much prettier, and a long shot better fun. 

Marchesa, Long shot! You speak strange English, 
you young men. Well, I go; it is seven o'clock. I dine 
your embassy. You dine too? A rivederci, 

[A general rising; people go out one by one. L'Es- 
TRANGE approaches the Peincess to say adieu. 

L'Estrange, Madame, your friend is too cruel; she 
scarcely deigns to speak to me. 

Princess (sharply), I am sure you must have done so 
much cruelty yourself, and endured so little from others, 
that the change is the best thing possible for you! 

L' Estrange (a little coldly). Certainly Madame Grlyon 
is a great artist and I am only a poor dilettante; still, I 
cannot see what I can have done to offend her, and 

Ipswich. You have been snubbed f How delicious! I 
could kiss the carpet where Madame Glyon's feet have 
just passed! It is the very thing you have wanted all 
your life long, only it comes too late! 

L'Estrange. Eeally, Ipswich, you have a good deal of 
the Margate 'Arry about you. You have all the wit of a 
cheap-tripper. Princess, you are so exquisitely kind your- 
self that I feel confident you will soften the heart of your 
friend toward one of the most sincere admirers of lier 
genius, and, if I may add it without offense — of herself. ' 

Princess (giving him her hand in farewell), I think I 
shall do nothing of the sort. To be "out in the cold " a 
little must be such excellent discipline for you who have 
been brought up in a hothouse amidst parasites all your 
life. 



16 AFTERITOOK. 

L'Estrange. A frost more often kills than cures, Ma- 
dame. 

Ipswich, Princess! You will promise me the cotilloia 
to-night? Pray — 

I*rinces$, I will tell you, after the last waltz, 

[ They take leave of her and exeurd. 

Princess {left alone), Marco, go and beg Madame Glyon 
to be so good as to come to me a moment. 

[SerwLnt exit^ 

Princess {aloud). Good heavens! What wretches men 
are! If she were his wife now, he would be finding every 
fault in her that a human creature could have, and be^ 
for ever writing notes to her about conventionalities, and 
breaches of precedence at her last dinner-party! Just be- 
cause she seems something new, uncommon, indifferent, 
incomprehensible, the base weak monster is piqued and 
almost in love! They are all alike — alike! If I were but 
somebody else's wife, Sanfriano would be mad about me^ 
and ruin himself in five minutes to satisfy my caprice or 
my curiosity. Because I am his wife, he never even sees 
what sort of gown I've got on; and if he is obliged to- 
spend an hour with me, he goes to sleep! And yet I am 
ten, fifteen, twenty million times prettier than that yel- 
low, lean, black-browed Danta woman! (Mme. Gltoit 
enters,) Ah, dearest Claire, how good of you to come 
down again; but there are heaps of time before dinner^ 
and I did so want to tell you — you have made that maa 
in love with you. 

Mme. Glyon. Laura! If you were anyone else 

Princess. Than myself, you would leave my house be- 
fore dinner! But I am myself, dear, and privileged ta 
say anything. Don't look so stern, and so reproachful. 
If you choose, in a fortnight's time he will be as much in 
love witli you as — as 

Mme. Olyon, As he was with a gardener's daughter in: 
Touraiue! 

Princess, Oh, Claire! you are the proudest woman in 
the world. 

Mme. Olyon. No, I am the humblest, or should be, for 
I have been the most humbled. 

Princess. But now, if you took your revenge? 

Mme. Glyon, Revenge? A ghastly word, not one I 
like or use. 



AFTERKOOK. 17 

Princess. Ifc was a religion here in Rome, and should 
he yours. Oh, my dear, I know we are not in the days of 
daggers, and that if we were, you would not use one; but 
I mean a vengeance innocent, but just. Make this man 
love you, and then, when he will suffer tortures in your 
rejection, tortures of passion, tortures of pride, then — 
avenge with one word ^' No " the gardener's daughter of 
Touraine. You will? You will? 

Mme. Glyon. Laura! you talk as if life were a game of 
tennis, or a struggle between two gamesters — nothing 
more. You never understand 

Princess. I never understand life as you see and read 
it. To accept outrage and neglect, to condemn yourself 
to solitude and sterility; to let the destroyer of it pass off 
unpunished, and have society like a gilded ball at his 
foot, to kick or play with — this is what you think honor 
and. dignity and duty. Well, to me it is a folly, nothing 
more; a grand, idiotic, sublime, and most useless tomfool- 
ery. There! 

Mme. Glyon. My dear, we see things with such differ- 
ent eyes. I said so the other day. I grieve t-hat I list- 
ened to you, and stayed here against my better judgment; 
but who could foresee the little accident that gave him 
opportunity and leave to speak to me? 

Princess. And he admires you beyond everything; your 
pictures he thinks perfection; yourself 

Mme. Glyon {with heat and pain). Oh, spare me, for 
heaven's sake, more evidence that no ray of recollection 
dawns on the utter night of his absolute forgetful ness. 
His admiration — his! A dog would have more recogni- 
tion, more instinct, more remembrance. 

Princess (surprised). But you always dreaded any rec- 
> ognitiou? 

Mme. Glyon (losing her calmness). Who has said that 
our granted wishes are our curses? Do not mistake me; 
I know that any suspicion on his part would lead to mis- 
ery for him and for myself, and were there any chance of 
it, I would put seas and deserts between him and me. Yet 
— ah, my dear, women are weak! when he looks at me 
as on a stranger, when he speaks to me with the compli- 
ment of society, it is hard to bear. 

Princess. But, dearest, do be reasonable. To him you 



18 AFTERiq-OON". 

have been dead so long: there is your memorial marble in 
this chapel. What can you expect him to 

Mme. Glyon. I know, I know! I said the same thing 
myself the other day in the Ludovisi gardens. Yet one 
might have thought — when I spoke — some accent, some 
tone might have touched some chord in his heart. 

Princess. He has done! He never had any. Would 
he have done what he did 

Mme. Glyon. What he did was done from pride. He 
was ashamed of me; he was mortified before his world by 
my ignorance and my errors. Perhaps I should have 
understood that, but I was so young. You cannot give a 
child of fifteen all the most exquisite joys of love and life 
for a year's time, and then drive her away from all the 
happiness you have taught her and consign her to the 
dreary tedium of a convent life without making her mad 
or worse! I loved him — you know how I loved him! 
Could he widow me at sixteen and think I should be pa- 
tient? And then to know how he had wearied of me, 
how he blushed for me, because I knew not all the little 
laws of his own world; how every day had been a greater 
shame and bitterness of regret to him until he had thrust 
me out of sight and memory under the sophist's pretext 
that I had received no education and should gain it best 
amongst the women of my own religion! Oh God! the 
torture of it, the martyrdom, the death in life! And you 
think to please me and console me because you tell me 
that he admires my pictures and my face! 

Princess. Claire! you frighten me. Pray don't be 
angry. I only thought, I only meant, if I were you I should 
revenge myself. You are famous, you are beautiful, you 
are independent; I would make him die of love for me, 
and die in vain! He has no heart, but he has passions. 
I would ring his very soul! 

M)ne. Glyon. You would do nothing of the kind if you 
had loved him once. Nor would there be decency or 
dignity in any such poor revenge as that. Besides — what 
a romance you weave because he scorched his hand! He 
only sought me because he is a connoisseur, and therefore 
artists are the poor moths he puts under his miscroscope. 

Princess. But you must feel proud of having achieved 
such a position for yourself. 

Mme. Glyon. I can be proud of nothing. A man loved 



AFTERKOON-. 19 

me, and wearied of me. That is humiliation enough to 
crush the pride of an empress into dust. 

Princess. You should not be humiliated at all. You 
are greater than he. You should scorn him. 

Mme. Glyon {with her teeth set). Perhaps I do. But 
that cannot take the sting from the wound. Yes, it was 
cruel, and so contemptible! He was a m;in of the world; 
he knew its codes, its exactions, its false estimates; he 
knew also that a peasant child, taken from field and or- 
chards, who only knew the Credo and the alphabet, could 
not by any miracle conceive the ways and the demands, the 
rigor and the mockery of a patrician society. He should 
have sent me to the convent first, and waited until I was 
more fit for his people and his sphere. Indeed — indeed — 
had he said even to me, when he did send me from him, 
^"^ Do this for love of me, my child," I would, I think, 
have borne the exile and the shame of it. But he grew 
colder and colder, more silent every day; he was to courte- 
ous to say to me all he felt, but in his eyes I read the daily 
humiliation that I was to him, and when he wrote to me 
— wrote to me! — that he was going on an Indian tour, and 
would be away two years, and those two years he wished 
me to pass at the convent learning, as he phrased it, the 
ordinary rules and graces of society; what girl of my age 
then could have endured such agony? And I — I adored 
the very dust he trod, I would kiss the heads of the dogs 
he had laid his hand on! To him, no doubt, it was but 
one of many episodes; an idyl lived out and found insipid. 
No doubt I was ignorant, and for him my ignorance was 
fatigue and shame; but to me, he and his love were all 
my life, and I could not tell why what he had earlier 
praised as pure and fresh and unconventional should have 
later lost all charm for him — I could not tell — hush! 
There is the Prince! 

Prince {entering). Care mie ! are you not going to dress 
to-night? We dine in ten minutes, Laura, and then 
there will be two hours wanted for you to get into your 
ball costume, and we must be punctual, since the Queen 
goes. 

Princess. Oh ! the Court never gets anywhere till eleven. 
You always fidget so! and you are always late yourself. 
My maid always gets me into my clothes in fifteen min- 
utes by the clock. / do not paint my skin . 



20 AFTERiq^OON^. 

Prince. There is so very little to put on you when it 
is question of a ball! Two inches of corsage and a little 
wreath for a sleeve. It might be done in Jive minutes! 

Princess. My gowns are always decent. The Duchess 
Danta's exhibition of her vertebra 

Mme. Glyon {pushing her gently to the door). My dear! 
what is the use of that? It prevents nothing, and imbit- 
ters everything. 

Prince {angrily). Madame Glyon, you see! She prick, 
prick, prick me every hour like that, and then she do 
wonder that I like better other women! 

3Ime. Glyon. My dear Prince, what pricks you is your 
conscience. You know you do neglect Laura sadly. 

Prince {opening his eyes widely). I leave her alone. 
She has her own way. I only want her do the same by 
me. Ma quante sono gelose le. donne ! — 

Mme. Glyon {smiling). No wife is wise. But I shall be 
late for dinner. \^Exit. 

Prince {to himself). That is a woman I could have got 
on with; not that I care about her. Antonio! un hicchier^ 
ino di Vermouth. [Exit toward dining-room. 



SCEis^E III. 

studio of Aldred Dorian. Tapestried Walls, Paintingif 
MarUes, Bronzes, Carved Chairs, Artistic Litter, 

Present: Doeian and Mme. Glyon. 

Dorian {tur^iing dissatisfied from one of his easels). 
You are a greater artist than I. 

Mme. Glyon. Oh! pas de phrases! _You area Titian, 
and paint physiognomy for posterity; 1 am but a poor 
limner of windmills, corn-fields, and little brooks that wash 
the linen. 

Dorian. You portray the face of Nature. It is the 
higher art. The sunset is nobler than a rosy cheek. 

Mme. Glyon, I can only paint a rosy apple. 

Dorian. Who would dare say that of you? You are 
as true, as grave, and as lofty as Millet. 

Mme. Glyon {smiling). You must be a very great man 
to say that of a woman — if you mean it. 



AFTERNOOl^. 21 

Dorian, I always mean what I say, and to you I conld 
not use an empty flattery if my lips could frame one {he 
pauses, hesitating), Madame — Olaire — you are greater in 
the art we love than I am, far greater, but I can own it 
with frankness and without jealousy, because — because — 
cannot you divine why? 

Mme. Glyon, Because you have a noble nature, and 
also too great a distrust of yourself. 

Dorian. Ko! It is because I love you. 

Mme. Glyon {staring at him toith wide-opened eyes)* 
Love me? Me 9 Are you mad, Dorian? 

Dorian, Mad? No; if I be, it is a lunacy that many 
share. Have you never guessed, never seen? I should 
not dare to speak, only our common love for our common 
art gives me some courage. I am rich, for an artist; for- 
give me if I say so vulgar a thing, but I mean that 1 have , 
the power to make your life a happy one, one of leisure to 
study, and aspire to the highest heights, which those who 
must needs work for bread can never do. I love you, I 
adore you — 1 adore you in the double form of woman and 
music. If you would not scorn me — you have showed me 
some esteem, some friendship — if you would be my 
wife — 

Mme, Glyon {stupefied). Your wife? Yours? You 
forget yourself strangely. Do not make me regret the 
confidence I have felt in a comrade, in a fellow-worker! 

Dorian {with some anger), Madame! how do I forget 
myself in offering to you an honest name, an honorable 
love? I worship you, I believe in you, I kneel at your 
•feet, Wliat wrong is there? I do not seek to know your , 
past; I do not, I will not, ask you of your marriage; the 
man is dead. I would forget he ever lived. 

Mme. Glyon, Pray cease! I cannot hear you. I shall 
never marry — again. I must ask your pardon for my 
hasty words. You do me much honor. I will endeavor 
to be. grateful, 

Dorian. I want no gratitude. I want your love, your 
beauty, your genius, your grand and tranquil nature; I 
want you. 

Mme. Glyon, Mr. Dorian, you will compel me to leave 
your studio, 

Dorian {seiziiig her hands). You will never listen! 



22 AFTERl^OOK. 

You will never cease to care for that dead man who they 
all say was but a brute to you! 

Mme. Glyon. I can but say what I have said. I shall 
never marry. I shall never love — again! 

[DoRiAiT releases her hand, and, luithout a word, 
leaves Ms studio hurriedly iy one door as there enter 
from another the Prii^cess jSaneriano, the Due a 
Di MoKTELUPO, and L'Esteange. 

Princess. Have we kept you waiting too long, Claire? 
But I know that you and Dorian can always talk together 
twelve hours at a stretch. But, goodness! where is Dorian? 
You told him we were coming? 

Mme. Glyon {with a little embarrassment). He went 
out a little while ago. No doubt he thought we were old 
friends enough to be content with his works without him- 
self, li^ou know they are the best part of every artist! 

Princess {loohs at her quickly). I shall wait till he 
comes back. I shall get his tea, and the dear little Per- 
sian cups and the apostle spoons, and the niello tray, and 
the Eoman maritozzi, and his negro will bring us his 
samovar. {Rijiys; a black servant apj^ears). Bring the 
urn, Eblis; you see we are old friends; I know your name* 

[She busies herself getting the Persian cups off an 
old oaken *' cabinet, ^^ Montelupo engrossed in, 
helping her. 

V Estrange (to Mme. Glyon). It is strange of Dorian. 
I saw him an hour ago, and told him we were to meet 
you here and see his treasures. Entre nous, I think him- 
self a much finer creation than his works. I care nothing 
for his pictures, but he is a rather noble fellow. You 
seem to know him well? 

Mme. Glyon. I have seen him often in Paris. I think 
he is a great artist, but his manner perhaps is hard and 
his color too thin to do his fine conceptions justice. 

U Estrange. He cannot be named by you. 

Mme. Glyon. Oh, why compare a pastoral and an 
epic? 

VEstrange. True! Besides,<there is nothing except 
Turner's with which one could compare all that you give 
ns. 

Mme. Glyon. You cannot be serious. You abhor 



AFTERNOOJS^. 23 

modern art. Why except from yonr censure what a 
woman does? 

V Estrange. One must except Eosa Bonheur and Mme. 
Glyon. Would you tell me — do not think it barren or 
impertinent curiosity, all these questions are of such vital 
interest — would you tell me where you studied, and under 
whom? 

Mme. Glyon, Chiefly in the open air and from Nature. 

L' Estrange, Ah, how right! It is the indoor work, 
the copying, the slavery to teclmique, the hot-stove atmos- 
phere, the gaslit coloring that are the curses of modern 
painters, 

V Estrange, Then — may I ask again — although you 
live in Paris, it was not there that you studied chiefly? 

Mme. Glyon. No. 

V Estrange. Madame! I see you think me a rude En- 
glishman, full of graceless and rough inquisitiveness. But, 
believe me, it is my entire sympathy with your marvelous 
works which makes me long to learn under what influences 
they were inspired. 

Mme, Glyon. That is only the language of compli- 
ment. 

E Estrange. On my honor, no! 

Myne. Glyon, Lord L'Estrange, when a man speaks 
to a woman, his word of honor is a very elastic thing! 

E Estrange. I do not see why you should disbelieve 
me. 

Mme. Glyon, Oh! perhaps you mean it now. 

E Estrange, Now? AVhy, now? If I find an infinite 
charm of the finest feeling finely rendered in your works, 
my judgment is at least nature, and not likely to be ca- 
pricious, Alas! I am young no longer. 

Mme, Glyon, Caprice is not a thing especially of 
yonth. 

E Estrange {impatient). On what grounds do yoit think 
me capricious? 

Mme. Glyon, You have the reputation of it. 

L^ Estrange. I do not think reputation is Just to me, 
then. My taste never varies. One must be faithful in 
art, or be indifferent to it. 

Mme. Glyon, To art! 

Princess {hringing a cup of tea, Moi^telupo folloimig 
li'Wi cahes). Here, Claire! I always thought Dorian's 



24 AFTERNOON. 

studio one of the nicest places in Eome when he was in it; 
now he is out of it, it is the very nicest. 

L* Estrange {handing tea to Mme. Glyon). Poor Dor- 
ian! And you are eating his excellent maritozzi, Prin- 
cess, and have no more gratitude than that? (He notices 
Mme. Glyon's left hand.) She has no ring on; did Glyon 
never live except in fiction? {aside,) 

[He seats himself again on low chair heside her. 

V Estrange, Now that your charming friend is gone 
to flirt with Montelupo once again over the samovar, let 
me implore you, tell me something of yourself. 

Mme. Glyon, Artists have no biographies, and their 
memoirs are written on their canvases. 

V Estrange. Nay, who has not made a pilgrimage ta 
Urbino for Raphael's sake? I would make a pilgrimage 
to your Urbino. 

Mme. Olyon, What if it landed you in a cabin? 

L* Estrange. Then the cabin would be as sacred as a 
temple. 

M^ne. Qlyon, Lord L'Estrange, you are an admirable 
flatterer. 

L^ Estrange {angrily). I never flatter! Flattery is as 
vulgar as abuse. But I must not weary you for what you 
will not say. 

Mme. Olyon {impatiently). There is nothing to say., 
I was a happy child. I W3S not a happy woman. Acci- 
dent taught me to find solace and strength in art. There 
is the end. 

L'Estrange {smiling). Your history must be far from 
its end! But what fate, what creature, could be vile 
enough and blind enough to cause you sorrow? 

Mme. Glyon {curtly). My husband. 

L Estrange. He must have been a brute, indeed, and 
a madman too! 

Mrhe. Glyon. Neither. He was but an egotist, and 
changeable. 

U Estrange. Changeable! When you were given to 
him as his " fixed star"? Good heavens! That the base- 
ness of a low-natured man should have the power to 
wound the great soul of such a woman as you are! 

Mme. Glyon. His was not a low nature; nor was he 
base. I had the misfortune to be his wife — that was all! 



AFTEEis^OOK. 35 

€ome, we must look at Dorian's work for the Academy 
and the Salon, or we shall not be able to excuse ourselves 
for stealing his tea and his maritozzu 

[SJie rises and turns one of the easels toward a letter 



Princess {aside to Mme. Gltojst). What was he saying 
to you? 

Mme. Glyon, Pretty phrases — the small change of so- 
ciety. Go and talk to him. If you are so engrossed by 
the little Duke, the club, will be told to-night of the good 
fortune of Azzelino Montelupo. 

Princess (pettishly). It would serve Carlino right. 
But then, to be sure, Carlino would not care. 

Mme, Glyon. I think he would care, and take his sar 
ber out of its scabbard. Duca, I want to see some won- 
drous missals that no one is allowed to see at the Vatican, 
You have two uncles Cardinals. Can you get me permis- 
sion. 

[She keeps Montelupo tvith her, strolling from easel 
to easel. 

Princess {to L'EstrahnTGe). Do you care for Dorian's 
things? 

L^ Estrange, Dear Princess, why will you always call 
pictures ^Hhingp"? 

Princess, Because I am of the great uneducated. I 
don't care the least for any picture. I only like Claire's 
because they are Claire's. 

V Estrange, Affection versus comprehension. It is a 
very o^ question which is worth the more. I see you can 
be a good friend, Princess — that is even rarer than true 
appreciation of art. 

Pri7icess. I thought nobody in creation understood art 
except yourself and Mr. Euskin. It is no merit in me to 
be a good friend to her. She is the noblest woman upon 
earth. 

VEstrange {loith unusual warmth). Of that I am 
quite sure, though I have had the honor only to know 
Madame Glyon ten short days. 

Princess. You admire her? 

U Estrange. Who could fail to do so? 

Princess. I don't think that's an answer. It is an 
equivoque. 



26 AFTERNOO]^. 

V Estrange, Then let me say it unequivocally, she is 
altogether my ideal of a perfect woman; her personal 
beauty just gives the softening touch that strength and 
genius in her sex are too often without; she is quite hon- 
estly that, I think. But I perceive she will not let me- 
say so. 

Princess. She distrusts all praise. 

V Estrange. Surely she is no cynic? 

Princess. No. But she was badly treated, wickedly 
treated; and you know, when one is so, it warps all one's 
belief in anything. I know that. 

L' Estrange, Oh, Princess, you never can have known 
anything like neglect! 

Princess {sentimentally). Ah, none can guess what 
a woman suffers in silence! You think because I chatter 
like a parrot 

VEstrange {irrelevantly). Princess, you really believe 
that Madame Glyon has been imbittered by her mar- 
riage? 

Princess. I never said she was litter. She could not 
be. She has too sweet a temper. But you know — you 
know — he was such a wretch. 

V Estrange. Is it possible? to such a woman? Who- 
was he? what was he? 

Princess. Oh, he was — he was nothing at all. A gen- 
tleman, you know; but that don't make any difference. 
They are the worst, I think. 

V Estrange. How terribly you are portee against usT 
But do tell me more about him — what did he do? 

Princess. I am afraid I can't talk about her if she 
don't talk about herself. She wouldn't like it; she would 
never forgive me. Claire is very sensitive. 

V Estrange. And Madame Sanfriano is very loyal. 
You are friends of long standing? 

Princess. We were at the same school. 

UEstrange. And what was her maiden name? 

Princess. I — I really forgot. I always called her all 
sorts of pet names. Why are you so interested in all this? 
Is it purely artistic, assthetic — what is the word? 

U Estrange. It seems to me simply natural that, meet- 
ing so beautiful and famous a person, one should feel a de- 
sire to know all her history, all her influences — all, in a 
word, that has united to make her what she is. 



AFTERN-OON-. 27 

Pri7icess, Yes? Well, I don't think I should trouble 
■about who she was. She is herself the cleverest, the 
bravest, the best of living creatures. By-the-bye, do you 
know, I am quite certain that Dorian's disappearance 
means something. He has been in love with her for years, 
and I do believe that, just as we came in, he had told her 
so. 

L' Estrange. Would she marry again? 

Princess. She says no; but of course she would if she 
cared for anybody. She never does; that is the worst of it. 

L' Estrange, She is wedded to her liberty and soli- 
tude? Dorian is a fine fellow, but very inferior to her. I 
should not think that she would stoop to him. 

Princess, I suppose she didn't, as he disappeared; but 
I don't know about the inferiority. He is very eminent, 
and he is so good — so good! 

L' Estrange, Princess! whenever were daughters of 
Eve won by goodness? 

Princess. But she isn't a daughter of Eve at all. She 
is utterly above all our follies. 

V Estrange, And above ours too. Perhaps that was 
her fault in her husband's eyes. It would humiliate some 
men. 

Princess, Would it you? 

L' Estrange, Surely not. I think one should always 
feel before one's wife a certain reverence, a certain shame 
at one's own memories. 

Princess, I will tell Carlino! It is very pretty and 
chivalrous sounding; but you know as well as I do. Lord 
L'Estrange, that nobody ever does feel that. Once mar- 
ried you only see your wife's faults — her freckles, if she 
have any — her foibles, her follies; if her feet are large, it 
is of them you think; and if she have exquisite feet, but 
a large nose, then it is only the nose you see. 

L Estrange. Princess, that is not love. 

Princess, It is as much love as there is. What is love? 
A dizziness, a syncope, a dash of cold water, an unpleas- 
ant awakening, and as we wake, w^e throw the cold water 
over everybody else. 

U Estrange, Who is cynical now? 

Mme, Glyo7i. Laura, it is growing late; we shall have 
no time for the Pincio. 

Princess. And 3^ou never will miss a sunset from the 



28 AFTERNOO^^. 

Hill. Now, it never occurs to me to look at the sky. I 
think yon artists get a great deal more enjoyment than 
we do, and you get it out of nothing. 

V Estrange {softly, looJcing at Mme. GLTOi^). The 
eyes that see! — yes, they are the most precious gift of 
heaven. 

Princess. Come, we will take you and Montelupo both 
up there; he and I will talk, and you and she shall look. 

Mme. Glyon. Laura, I have forgotten that I had prom- 
ised to be with the Countess Dantzic at the Molinara by 
six o'clock; I must for once renounce the evening red and 
gold behind St. Peter's. 

Princess {aside to Mme. Glyon). Oh dear, that is be- 
cause T asked him to drive with us! How could I help it? 
I brought him. 

Mme. Glyon {in the same tone). You could have helped 
bringing him. 

U Estrange {coldly eying Mme. G-lyon). Dear Prin- 
cess, you are always too kind, but I fear 1 must renounce 
the pleasure. I dine with a prince of the Church to- 
night who has the bad taste alwa^ys to begin his admirable 
soups at sunset. 

Princess. Well, I shall not take you, Azzelino, all 
alone behind my horses. You would be so flattered you 
would be insufferable till Lent. You can walk somewhere 
like Lord L'Estrange; I will go in my solitude and stare 
at the sky, till I manage to see something in it. Did you 
say the Molinara, Claire? 

Mme. Olyon. Yes, my old Diisseldorf friend is there; 
you can call and take me up after your drive. 

Princess. What a fuss we are all making! People 
talk less nowadays of going over to New Zealand or the 
North Pole! Cross? {to MoiiTTELUPO, who had murmured 
in her ear). Yes; I am cross. I generally am, and these 
maritozzi are very indigestible. 

L' Estrange. If you would excuse my escort down the 
stairs, I think I will leave a line for Dorian. 

Prificess. Pray do, and tell him I am the culprit as 
regards the maritozzi — I always own my sins. 

[They leave the studio: L'Estran"GE remains. He 
throws himself into a large gilt leather chair, and 
lights a cigar. 



AFTERKOOK. 29 

VEstrange. Why does that woman shnn me? It is 
quite unmistakable that she does. Her eyes are frank and 
pure, yet one could swear she had a secret she was 
ashamed of; it might be low birth, but that is impossible. 
She has race in every line, in every movement. Some- 
thing there must be, because even, the little chattering 
fool of a Sanfriano keeps her own counsel. If ever I saw 
a noble woman, she is one; and yet — she wears no rings, 
she will not say who this dead man was, nor where they 
lived, nor where he died; perhaps she was deceived — per- 
haps Dorian would know. He has been a friend of hers 
in Paris, and there is a freemasonry between artists. I 
will write and ask him, and somebody must make excuse 
for this litter of teacups and apostle spoons. 

Enter Dorian; lie is pale and grave; lie pushes lack tlie 
tapestry from a secret door. Seeing L'EsTRAi^GE, 
lie pauses, disconcerted. 

Dorian. I thought you were all gone. 

L' Estrange. Most hospitable of celebrities! You are 
too complimentary {then he looks hard at Doriak and 
ceases to smile). Why, Dorian, what has happened? Have 
you been near us all this time? 

Dorian (pointitig to the door bg which he entered). Yes^ 
I was at home. I heard a little that you said: not much. 
I heard you say how greatly I am inferior to her. You 
were right; I had said the same to her myself this after- 
noon. 

UEstrange. My dear Dorian 

Dorian. Do not deny it. I know a lie, even a kind 
one, chokes you as it chokes me. We Englishmen have 
not a flexible trachea for falsehood. It is often awkward 
for us. 

L' Estrange, But what ails you? Why did you shut 
yourself away from us? 

Dorian. Because the little parrot of a Princess said 
aright; the only woman I have ever wished to make my 
wife had, five minutes earlier, rejected me. You were quite 
correct in thinking that she would not stoop to me. 

V Estrange, Dorian! I spoke idly. I never meant 

Dorian. You spoke as you thought; why not? She is 
greater than I am. Love might bridge that, if it were 
there; but it is not — on her side. 



30 AFTERNOON. 

V Estrange. You must — pardon me the question — 
but you must know her history, since you would give her 
your name? 

Dorian. I have no idea of her history. I am confi- 
dent it must be a blameless one, when I look at her. 

V Estrange. And you know nothing? 

Dorian^ Nothing. Her life in Paris is austere and un- 
tainted by a breath of calumny. That I do know. But 
beyond that nothing. Do you think I would insult her 
with a doubt? 

V Estrange. But in your wife? 

Dorian. She will no more be my wife than will the 
marble Ariadne of the Capitol. But I would make her 
my wife without a single question that would seem also a 
suspicion. 

V Estrange. That is very noble, but 

Dorian. You would say the same if you loved her. 

V Estrange. I think not. *' The world is with me," 
and I share its judgments — if you will, its prejudices. 

Dorian. Yes; once you committed for the world's sake 
the most selfish sin of your life. 

V Estrange. What? 

Dorian. I mean the exile of that poor child you mar- 
ried. 

V Estrange {annoyed and slightly emharrassed ). Why 
rake among the ashes of dead years? I acted naturally, 
I think; how could I tell she would so take it to heart 

Dorian. As to destroy herself. I suppose you could 
not. I never saw her; but between two people there is 
always one who sacrifices, one who is sacrificed. 

L' Estrange. And you really, in all truth, know noth- 
ing of the past of this singular woman to whom you 
would trust your peace, your honor? 

Dorian. Absolutely nothing. 

L' Estrange. Not even who was Glyon? 

Dorian. No. 

I! Estrange. It is incomprehensible. 

Dorian, When you married that hapless peasant child, 
did you hesitate because 

L^ Estrange. That was utterly different. She was a 
child. I knew the absolute innocence and childishness 
of her life. No suspicion could rest on her. 

Dorian {going nearer to him). And if you say that 



AFTERNOOl^r. 31 

any suspicion lies on Claire Glyon, I will never admit you 
in these doors again. 

U Estrange {touched). My dear fellow, you are very 
generous; you are like a kniglit of old. I am ready to be- 
lieve in her. 

Dorian. Then, why insult her in her absence? 

L* Estrange. I never thought of insult. I was only 
desirous to know the key to her coldness, her apparent 
loneliness, her silence as to her past. 

Dorian {coldly). I cannot help to satisfy your curios- 
ity. 

V Estrange. It is not curiosity alone. But if we argue 
in this manner we shall end in a quarrel, and that would 
be beneath both you and me. Besides, I am due at Oar- 
ninal Roxano's. Good nigh t, my friend; I will not wish 
you consoled, for consolation is only the harvest of feeble- 
ness, and you are strong. 

\Presses Dorian's Ixandy and leaves the studio* 

Dorian {to himself). Or the harvest of selfishness. 
He thinks of her already! To think of her is to love her. 



ScEN-E IV. 

Salons in Palazzo Sanfriano. 

Present: the PRiisrcESS, Mme. Glyoi^, L'EsTRAiirGE, Ips- 
wich, Marchesa Zakziki. a Bric-a-brac seller is 
showing ivories, carvings, stuffs, and a triptych, 

U Estrange {giving him lack an ivory nestlce). Mr. 
Brown, this is no more Japanese than I am. Don't you 
know that the Japanese take ten years of their lives to 
carve a lady-bird on a rose-leaf? This is Dutch work, and 
very coarse work even for Dutch. Have you never learned 
the A B of your commerce, Mr. Brown? 

Princess. You shouldn't be so hard on the poor creat- 
ure. He admits he is obliged to keep a heap of rubbish 
to satisfy the Americani. 

L^ Estrange. Satisfaction is the antithesis of my emo- 
tions in surveying his treasures. May I ask why you have 
this mountain of fraud in your presence? 

Princess, Why, surely I told you. I am going to wear 



32 AETERKOOis^. 

a Yene*:ian page's dress at the Malatesta ball, and I wanted 
an old Italian dagger, and he brought me one. This is 
genuine? 

Ij Estrange, Have you bought it? 

Princess. Certainly. Oh, good gracious! isn't it 
right? 

L' Estrange, Perhaps it is not worth while telling you, 

\ and yet you inust not be seen with it. It is German work; 

j it was made at Berlin last week. Even were it old, it 

: would be of no use to you. You want a Venetian poniard 

or stiletto; this is copied from a French misericorde of the 

Valois time. 

Princess, Oh dear! and I have given five hundred 
francs for it! 

U Estrange. It is worth fifteen. Send the impostor 
away, and when you buy things, do ask someone who 
knows. It is ignorance that allows these people to flood 
the world with anachronisms and counterfeits. 

Princess, Well, I confess if a thing's pretty I don't 
mind much who made it. Now I shall have to roam all 
over the place looking for a poniard. You have been very 
erufcl. Nobody would have noticed • 

V Estrange, I will get you what you ought to have, if 
it be in Kome; and if not, I will telegraph home. I have 
a collection of daggers, and there are some of the Cinque- 
cento amongst them. 

Princess, Too charming of you. Of what haven't you 
a callection at home? 

V Estrange, Not of Dutch nesthes. 
" Marcliesa, I have got at home tlie daga with which 
Cesare Borgia had my forefather killed, after a banquet, 
on Quattro Oapi bridge, one nice dark night. .When they 
took him home, it was between his shoulder-blades: he 
dead. If you like, Princess, I will lend it you with pleas- 
ure. It is the right epoch. 

Princess, . Oh, dear Marchesa, you are so kind. But, 
if it murdered a man, it would be unpleasant to wear it. 

Marchesa, Pooh! They must all have murdered many 
mens if they are real daggers. How you look! And you 
think nothing of staring at the stipplechase out at Albano 
when young Stanhope he kill himself. 

Ipswich, But that was fair, Marchesa. Stanhope 
pitched on his head: who could help it? 



AFTERN'OOJiT. 33 

Marcliesa. Ah, your distinctions are too snbtle for my 
simplicity. Yon think notliing of killing if it done in 
sport; me, I think more excnse for it when it done in pas- 
sion. But I go to see their comedietta at Barberini. You 
come with me, my dear; you improve my English; your 
own is so choice. 

IpstvicTi. I come! But, hang it, Marchesa, one can't 
talk like old Johnson. 

Marcliesa, Why not? We talk like Dante. 

Ipsivich. You see, one can't be chaffed. 

Marchesa, Chaff? tha-t means to tease, to insult, to 
jeer, to grin. No; we not do that to one another. Where 
is there wit in rudeness? 

\Exeunt Marchesa <:m^ Ipsvsicir. 

[PriisTCESS takes the tradesman apart to look at It is 
stuffs; L'EsTRAKGE approaches Mme. Gltojst. 

L' EstroMge, You were sketching in the Cimontanara 
this morning? You go often? 

Mme. Glyon, Yes; it is beautiful there, looking out 
to the San Giovanni gate. 

V Estrange, Can one come? 

Mme, Glyon. No; you must be a friend of the owner. 
I believe there is one day in the week when anybody niJiy 

V Estrange, I certainly do not covet that one day in 
the week. Mme. Glyon, you are Very frigid always, but 
I want you to thaw to me enough to tell me why last week 
in Dorian's atelier you told me you had heard I was ca- 
pricious? What common friend have we who so thor- 
oughly carries out the modern theories of friendship as to 
malign me thus? 

Mme, Glyon {hesitates). I know no friend of yours. 
I am not in the world. 

L^ Estrange. Then, if it were your own fancy only, 
what made you think so? 

Mme, Glyon {lifts her head and looks at him coldly). 
The story of your marriage is common property. I have 
heard it like everyone else. If you find me too intrusive 
on your private life, do not blame me — vous Vavez voulu, 

V Estrange {is silent a moment and annoyed). Yes; 
certainly that very old, old story of a folly is common 



34 AFTERKOOX. 

property. But I should not have supposed that anyone 
had remembered so mere an episode, and one so long ago. 

Mme. Glyoru An episode! I heard it was a tragedy. 

U Estrange. AVho can have tallced to you about it? 
Ipswicii? 

Myne. Glyon. Oh no! I lieard it — once — very long 
ago, as you say, 

L^ Estrange, A stupidity in one's life is never pardoned. 
A thousand crimes are easily enough forgotten and for- 
given. So it is tliis silly tale that has prejudiced you 
against me? I dare say you actually believe me a modern 
edition of Bluebeard? 

Mme. Glyon, It does not seem to me the sort of past 
that one would expect a man to jest at, I do not pre- 
sume to judge you; but, as I say, the tale gave me an im- 
jDression of both caprice and cruelty. 

V Estrange {angrily). I have neither in my character. 
That I can declare with a clear conscience. I have no 
illusions about myself, nor do I claim any especial supe- 
riority of temper; but this I can say honestly, I am inca- 
pable of cruelty to any living creature. I am even that 
miracle, an Englishman who hates a gun! 

Mme. Glyon. I did not say you shot your wife. 

^Estrange {tuith a little laugh). Madame, I am your 
debtor that you acquit me even of that much! My wife 
— well, yes — she was my wife, certainly; but, good heav- 
ens! if I could tell you how impossible it seems to me 
that such a passage can ever have occurred in my life! I 
feel convinced that I must have read it in some novel, seen 
it on some stage, and had a nightmare, dreaming the his- 
tory was mine. 

Mme. Glyon. I suppose it was all so very long ago — 
you have forgotten? j 

V Estrange. No; it is not the sort of episode that one 
forgets. 

Mme* Gtyon, You are very fond of the word "epi- 
sode." 

L^ Estrange. It seems to me to describe correctly the 
short period in my life of which we are now talking. It 
was an episode; it was not more — it was an episode of un- 
utterable folly, infatuation, disillusion, pain, and re- 
pentance, ^ r . 



AFTEEKOON. 35 

M^ne, Glyon. Repentance? It seems to sit lightly on 
yon. 

U Estrange. I mean repentance of a foolish and hasty 
action which made me very absurd in the world's eyes, 
and caused an amount of comment, misrepresentation, 
and interference on the world's part such as I am the last 
man upon earth to endure with tolerance. 

Mme, Glyon. I beg your pardon. I fancied you meant 
repentance for your injury of a girl's life. 

U Estrange. Madame! That is really too preposter- 
ous. What injury could I do the poor child? I injured 
myself, if you will! 

Mme. Glyon, I thought you married her? That is 
what I always heard. 

L^ Estrange. AVell, 1 married her! "Where is the injury 
there? I could have done no more for a duke's daugh- 
ter, for a crown princess. It is that which was my intol- 
erable idiocy! my absolute madness! Looking back, I 
cannot conceive 

Mme. Glyon. Is it so very long ago? 

L' Estrange, Ten years, eleven, twelve — it is not the 
length of time, it is the strange delusions ^vhich possessed 
me, wiiich make it seem impossible to me I ever was the 
man laughed at by all Europe for presenting at an En- 
glisli Drawing-room a French peasant's daughter. 

Mme. Glyon, Did this peasant do anything very strange 
at the Drawing-room? 

V Estrange. Strange? No; not that I remember. She 
was shy and stupid, of course, like a little sheep; but I 
tliink my mother hustled her through without accident; 
only when the Queen spoke to her she answered — I sup- 
pose from sheer force of habit — ^' Merci, matonne dameP'^ 

Mme. Glyon {luith a cold smile). You should have 
sent lier to Tower Hill for treason. 

L^ Estrange, You are pleased to laugh; I can assure 
you it is no laughing matter to have such a joke as that 
against the woman who bears your name running like 
wildfire through all the clubs of London. 

Mme. Glyon. Position seems to bring with it strange 
pusillanimity. AVere I a man, I should not be a coward. 

L' Estrange, A coward! It is no question of coward- 
ice. It is the sense of being made ridiculous. 

Mme, Glyon, Pray, what is that but cowardice? I 



36 AFTER]N-OOH. 

bardly see what there was to be so very ashamed of. Your 
wife was a little peasant — everyone knew that. It was 
iioL wonderfiil in so strange a scene, so bewildering a 
crowd as a royal reception must have seemed to her, that 
words which she no doubt had been taught by her own 
people to say as the most perfect phrase of courtesy, came 
to her tongue before the Queen! Lord L'Estrange, I am 
a Frenchwoman, and not of the highest classes myself. 
You will pardon me if my sympathies are rather 'with 
your wife than with yourself. If the poor little simple 
*^ Merci, ma lonne dameP^ was all your wrongs, I 
think 

L^ Estrange, Wrongs! What wrongs can an innocent 
and harmless child do one? She never wronged me, but 
she did worse. At every turn she irritated me, annoyed 
me, confused me before my friends, made me look like a fool 
— as the vulgar phrase runs. She was as lovely as the 
morning, but as ignorant as the little swine she had been 
used to drive to find the truffles. At every moment of 
intercourse I was met by that blank wall of absolute igno- 
rance; she understood nothing that I said or that I alluded 
to; my dog comprehended better the topics of the day. 
She made grotesque mistakes in everyday etiquettes that 
were as simple as A B 0. The women laughed at her 
and laughed at me, till I was beside myself. When I 
tried to teach her or correct her, she cried out that I had 
ceased to love her, and sobbed for hours. I wrote her 
little notes as to the tilings she ought to know or do, and 
she thought those more cruel than spoken words. What 
was I to do? 1 did what seemed to me most simple and 
best for both; I arranged a tour in India for myself and 
sent her to a convent at Paris to be educated. The issue 
was terrible; but I have never seen, that I did anything 
so very cruel. I repeat I thought that she would be wise, 
and learn the sort of learning without which a woman is 
a laughing-fStock for society, and — and — well, you know 
she took it in another light, poor creature! and 

Myne. Glyon, She died. It was very stupid. 

VEstrange (angrily). You are very unjust to me. I 
meant neither to injure nor desert her. It was impossible 
that I could imagine so simple an arrangement for her 
welfare would be taken to heart in so tragic a manner. 
I was neither faithless nor heartless. It seems to me that 



AFTERITOON. 37 

I only did a most natural thing in placing her where she 
could learn and unlearn, and where she could be made 
able to hold her own in the world we lived in. 

Mme. Qlyon. Oh, no doubt it was very natural. I be- 
lieve most egotism is so. 

V Estrange, How was it egotism? It was for the pooi- 
child's own good. 

Mme, Glyon. Oh, of course; only it seems that she was 
too stupid to appreciate it. You know women are foolish ; 
they expect love to endure: they are ready to sacrifice 
themselves, and so fancy men will do the same. They are 
tragic, as you say, aind take things au grand serieux. Of 
course your wife ought to have appreciated your excellent 
intentions, and understood your susceptibilities, which 
she was so perpetually and unconsciously outraging. She 
should have had no such false sentiment as her own pride 
and her own affections. I quite see from your point of 
view that she must have been irritating and wearisome — 
most irritating, most wearisome. But why would you 
marry her? 

V Estrange, She was very beautiful, and I — I have 
said I was foolish to an incomprehensible degree, and I had 
at the time all sorts of romantic notions as to my wife be- 
ing unspotted by the world, and molded to my hand, 
and all that kind of thing. It is twelve years ago. Look- 
ing back at it, I cannot now understand how I came to 
commit such an unutterable insanity, 

Mme. Olyon, All your pity is evidently for yourself. 
And ye!; — she did die, did she not? 

VEstrange {loith pain). Yes, she did. Poor little 
fool! Who could ever foresee 

Mme. Glyon. You should be very grateful to her now. 
You never could have made anything of her from your 
point of view. She would never have been a grande dame; 
and only think now how tired and sick you would be of 
her! She would be worse than a Japanese nesthe carved 
in Amsterdam! 

L' Estrange {gloomily). You are pleased to make a jest 
of it. It is not one* to me. She was full of promise; her 
mind was delicate and lofty; her natural grace was great: 
with culture 

Mme. Glyo7i, Oh no, believe me, she would always have 



38 AFTERNOOlSr. 

said '^ Merci, ma ionne dame!" somehow or other, or its 
equivalent, and disgraced you. 

U Estrange. She disgraces me now, I see, in your eyes! 
You evidently believe that I behaved abominably and 
cruelly to her, while in truth I had no other thought but 
to make her fit 

Mme. Olyon. For you and your exalted station! 

JJ Estrange. Madame! I am not a cad! 

Mme, Olyon, No; you are an accomplished gentleman 
and a man of the world; but for those very reasons you 
only considered yourself. And since you have brought on 
this conversation of your own will, will you not confess 
now, that in your shame of her, and your want of cour- 
age in supporting her and the world's laughter, there was 
an element of — of — do not murder me! — of snobbishness? 

[L'EsTRAXGE groios red and rises in silence, Mme. 
Glyok poiors herself some tea. 

The Princess {approaching). How very angry you look. 
Lord L'Estrange! What has my friend been saying to 
you? 

V Estrange. That which is the one unpardonable sin, 
Princess — a truth! Your dagger shall be here as quickly 
as a telegram can summon it; and, for heaven's sake, have 
nothing more to do with hric-a-hrac Brown. Mesdames, 
I must leave you. There is a terrible dinner for the Grand 
Duke to-night that I shall be late for — a man- dinner of 
all horror! 

\^He shakes hands with the Peij^cess; 'bows to Mme. 
Glyojs", and goes out. 

Princess {to Mme. Glyon). What did you say to him? 

ifme. Glyon {rising and putting doion her cup). He 
Avould speak of his marriage. I tried to avoid it, but he 
would continue the subject. Then I told him home-truths 
that stung him. Oh, my dear, that I, should have wor- 
shiped the ground that man trod on! He is worse even 
than I thought! so poor a spirit, so miserable and petty a 
pride! He owns he separated himself from — from Ijis 
wife, because she offended his taste in conventional things 
and got him ridiculed before conventional society. He 
cited, as though it were some treason, some great crime, 
that one poor little fault of *^ Merci, ma bonne dame I" to 



AFTERNOON. 39 

the Qneen of England. It is cowardly; it is contemptible; 
it is vile! 

Princess. But, my dear, you knew all this. 

Mine, Glyon» I knew it in"a measure. I knew that he 
sent me to the convent because I did not content him. 
But who would have thought that after twelve long years 
these miserable little mistakes would live in his memory 
as gigantic sins? Who would have dreamt that when he 
thinks her dead — dead — the creature he once ioved~he 
would have no remembrance left but for her sins of omis- 
sion and commission against the trumpery by-laws of a 
worthless world? 

Princess, Oh, dear Claire! It is always so. A glove 
that does not fit her rankles in a man's mind against a 
woman when he has forgotten all about her lie, her treach- 
ery, or her meanness. They would sooner, if they could, 
take you into the Divorce Court because you freckle, than 
because you have spent a fortnight at Monte Carlo with 
someone else. That is a man all over. Talk of our love 
of trifles! Why, it is nothing to theirs. If we have Lon- 
don shoes on instead of Paris ones, they know it! 

Mme, Glyon. Yes; the fools do, the gommeux do; but 
he is neitlier. He has intellect, character, and high cult- 
ure; he had a heart, too — once: and he seemed the very 
soul of chivalry. And yet, so has the world eaten into 
him, so has the false code of society bound him to it, that 
. he justifies his conduct — justifies it! — because I, only 
three months from my vineyards and my cabbage-field, 
taken to that bewildering dazzling crowd of the Queen's 
Drawing-room, frightened by his mother, who awed and 
hated me; forgot the lesson I had learned by heart, and 
when I came before the throne, and the kind voice of the^ 
royal lady said kind words to me, I stammered out the 
old phrase of my babyhood, '^ Mer'ci, ma 'bonne dame P"^ 
Yes. I had been taught to say that when I was a little 
child, if any gentlewoman gave me sweetmeats or cen- 
times, and I disgraced him with it there, and all the Lon- 
don clubs laughed at him! And to thi-s day, though twelve 
long years have passed, it is terrible to him, and unpardon- 
able still. What do you call that? I call it petty pride, 
poltroonery, snobbism — the sign of a trivial nature, and of 
a poor base mind! 

Princess, Did I not always say his must be? 



40 AFTERKOOK. 

Mme. Olyon* But his was not! I repeat, he had a 
noble character, and a fine intelligence. He was spoilt 
by the world's adulation, perhaps, and by a foolish and 
arrogant mother; but he had a noble and generous nature 
— at that time. Who could have thought he would have 
forgotten all our love, all our joy, all our beautiful and 
happy hours, and merely remembered a few social blun- 
ders that made the clubs laugh? I think he does not even 
recollect he ever loved me! He only speaks of his mar- 
riage as an unimaginable idiocy — an incomprehensible 
madness! 

[Servant a?inounces Milord L'Estra]S"GE. 

VEstrange {returning), A thousand pardons, Prin- 
cess, but I forgot to ask you the precise epoch of your 
Venetian costume? What year are you? 

[Mme. Gltok leaves the roo7iu The Prikcess is a 
little conf 



Princess, The year? Oh, I don't know. About the 
sixteenth century will do, won't it? 

L^ Estrange {smiling). '' About a century " is rather a 
wide margin. No; you must take a year, and be scrupu- 
lous in adhering to it; you know Italians are always 
most exact in these matters. 

Princess. Ah, yes, because they have all their ances- 
tors' things hung up in their wardrobes. But I haven't 
any ancestors, nor any things, and you are going to lend 
me yours. 

U Estrange. I should be too delighted if I could give 
you my ancestors, Princess. Unhappily Sanfriano has 
been before me and has given you his! Well, does the 
time of Giorgione suit you? We will fix it so. That will 
give you range enough, and charming costumes; but 
Sanfriano must know as much as I. 

Princess. Oh, if I were anybody else, he would be all 
day in the studios getting me sketches! He is busy on 
the Duchessa Danta's costume. She goes as a sorceress; 
I offered him a black cat for her. Don't go away this 
moment. Lord L'Estrange, I want to know why you and 
Claire were quarreling. 

L* Estrange. Is her name Claire? 

Princess. Yes; what of it? It is a common name in 
France. Why you were quarreling? 



AFTERKOOK. 41 

L^ Estrange, I assure you 

Princess. Oh, it is no use. Claire looked contemptu- 
ous, and you looked angry. What was it about? 

U Estrange. I have the misfortune never to please 
Madame Glyou. She dislikes me. 

Princess. I am not sure of that. But Claire is a very 
proud woman, and she is always very strong in taking 
other women's parts, and you know — don't you know? — 
I suppose I ought not to say it, but there is that story of 
your marriage, and that goes against you. Tell it how 
you may, you look so heartless, so inconstant, so capri- 
cious. I ought to beg your pardon 

V Estrange. Pray do nothing of the kind. Madame 
Glyon herself has explained at full length her views upon 
that subject. She has heard a few outlines of the affair, and 
this skeleton she has clothed with all the riches of her 
imagination and her sympathies; very much to my preju- 
dice. She said very rude things to me; but I am bound 
in honor to admit that some of them were very true ones; 
although her exaggerated compassion for my — my victim 
— renders her singularly unjust to me. 

Princess. It is not at all like Claire's usually delicate 
taste to begin personalities. 

L'' Estrange. Oh, the fault was altogether mine. I 
worried her till she spoke. I was punished as I deserved 
to be. We cannot complain of receiving what we ask for, 
and I asked her to speak without compliment or reticence 
— and — she did so. 

Princess. She offended you? 

L' Estrange. She offended me. We are very poor creat- 
ures, and are as thorny as porcupines the moment any- 
one stings our pride. What most especially annoyed me 
was that she should not for a moment consent to look at 
the facts from my point of view. 

Princess. She would probably do so if you were not 
present. That is just like Claire. 

L^ Estrange, I am sure she would not. She has made 
up her indictment against m.e as coldly and accurately as 
she would do a problem in mathematics. But I will con- 
fess to you. Princess, that the moment I had left your 
house I felt ashamed of my anger. Her defense, after all, 
of another woman was noble; most women always side 
with me, praise me, and tell me I did quite right; most 



42 AFTEENOOiT. 

women always go without examination against the woman 
in any story. And what vexes me, I will confess also, is 
that in answering her I mnst have looked a very sorry 
creature. All the arguments I put forward, though true 
ones, were selfish and shallow. She told me I was a 
snob — 

Frificess. Oh— h— h— h!!!! 

U Estrange. And honestly, she had cause to say so. 
1 did lack courage — moral courage; and although it is not 
so easy as she deems it for a man to bear his marriage be- 
ing made the joke of the town, yet I can fancy that to her 
my defense seemed trivial, mean, and vulgar; and lowered 
me in her estimation. She says she is of the people her- 
self; is that so? 

Princess. I believe she — was — not anybody, in your 
sense of the word. 

L' Estrange. But she is so perfect a gentlewoman. 

Princess. Yes; she certainly is. And so clever! 

U Estrange {abruptly). What was Glyon? 

Princess. I — I really don't know. 

U Estrange. But he is really dead? 

Princess, Oh, yes; he does not exist, thank goodness! 

L' Estrange. Was he a brute to her? 

Princess. I think her husband was — not very good. 

V Estra7ige. That would account for it, then. 

Princess, Would account for what? 

U Estrange, For her violent partisanship of that poor 
young girl — my wife of a year — for v/hose tragic death I 
was not to blame; upon my word I was not. If I had 
had any foreboding or conception of the manner in which 
my departure affected her, I would not for worlds have 
left her, even though every hour of our life together had 
its thorns. I wish you would persuade your friend of this. 
I must have seemed to her unmanly, and a mere selfish, 
cowardly knave; and I do not like so grand an artist, and 
so noble a woman, to have so poor an opinion of me. Will 
you be my friend, Princess? 

Princess. Lord L'Estrange! You are very charming 
when you are natural. 

L' Estrange, Natural? Heaven and earth! You do 
not mean that I am ever a poseur f 

Princess* Just a little sometimes. Don't be. How 
horrified you look! 



AFTERKOON". 43 

V Estrange, Well, to be called a snob and a poseur in 
one day 

Princess. Is hard for a leader of art and fashion, and 
a son of the Crusaders! I will be your friend with Chiire. 
But she is terribly obstinate^ and in a sort of way she is 
terribly democratic too. If you were a painter sans le sou 
she would be more easily disposed to be amiable to you. 

L^ Estrange. You make me wish for news that my old 
abbey is gutted and the bank of England is bankrupt. 

Princess. Are you as serious as that? 

L' Estrange. Quite. And I commend myself to your 
merciful hands, Princess. 

Princess. Do you go to KeudelFs to-night? 

L' Estrange. I will if you will promise me the cotillo7i. 

[Exit. 

Priyicess {goes to tlie door of the inner room), Claire! 
Come back one moment. He is gone. 

Mnie. Glyon {enters). I am tired. Do not keep me 
long. 

Princess. You are not tired, you are unhappy. Oh, 
my dear Claire, I am sure he is so fond of you still! 

Mme. Glyon {sternly). What? How dare you say so? 
He has forgotten me as utterly as a lasting irritation and 
my memory allow him to do. 

Princess. Well, you know, I mean — not fond of you 
still — fond of you again. Oh, don't look so angry! Do 
you know, he spoke so nicely about her — I mean you — I 
can't express myself properly; but indeed it is quite true. 
He says he feels he must have looked heartless and cow- 
ardly, and all that, just now when he talked to you, but 
that he isn't so one bit really; and he does so want you to 
do him justice. 

Mine. Glyon {Utterly). Justice! You pleading to me 
for justice for /zm/ My dear, I really think that even 
your teetotam of a mind should not have spun round 
quite so quickly. To defend him to me! I do not know 
whether it be the more ridicule or the more insult. In- 
deed, it is both! 

Princess {ivith tears in Jier eyes). Oh Claire, I think 
him just as much of a wretch as ever I did. I don't spin 
round; I don't change — no, never — about you. But he 
can be very nice in manner when he is natural; and though 



44 AFTEEKOOK. 

you will not listen about it, he admires you — ^blindly — he 
is passionately anxious to have your good opinion. 

M7ne. Glyon, I daresay! Lord L^Estrange is surfeited 
by women's adulation, and his pride is piqued by a per- 
son who is no one in the eyes of his world daring to be in- 
different to him. His anxiety to please me was a caprice, 
as the other was! 

Princess, Oh Claire, you are very hard! I can't see 
why you should not win him again and be happy. 

Mme, Glyon, I suppose you think, as he does, that a 
woman of my birth should have no pride? Win him 
again! How can you speak so? He divorced me when I 
was the most innocent thing on earth, and 

Princess. No, he did not divorce you! He meant to 
come back in two years. 

Mme, Glyon, Two years! He makes you believe that. 
He neither meant nor would have been likely to return. 
He separated himself from me because I offended his 
taste, got him laughed at by his friends, and committed 
social mistakes every time I moved or spoke. He said 
himself just now that his marriage was an incomprehen- 
sible act of absolute idiocy. 

Princess, But if he had known you were you 

Mme, Glyon, ^o doubt I should have been once more 
odius and contemptible to him! He admires me, you say; 
yes, I believe he does; but what he admires is a woman 
who repulses him, who is famous, who has a talent that 
happens to be to his taste, and who he fancies has a past 
that is mysterious and not too creditable. His imagina- 
tion and curiosity are at work, and his pride is stimulated 
and irritated; if he knew this moment that I am his wife, 
he would change in one instant. I should be a mere awk- 
ward, ignorant peasant once more in his sight; he would 
say once more what an unutterable fool he was twelve 
years ago. His fancy for me when I was a child was ca- 
price, but it was passion too; his fancy for me now is only 
caprice doulU with curiosity and pique. I am not likely 
to be his dupe twice over. 

Princess, You are dreadfully unforgiving. Do you 
know, if I were you, I should revenge myself, since you 
will not pardon hitn, in quite another way. I should en- 
courage him, and I should refuse him. For I am certain 
he will ask you to marry him. 



APTERXOOK. 45 

Mme. Glyon (Jbitterhj). Surely not. Since his mar- 
riage twelve years ago was an idioc}^ be would never, now 
that he is twelve years older, desire to make another that 
would be an equal imbecility! Remember, the voice of 
society is the voice of Uod to him! 

Princess. But if he did — would you — would you tell 
him the truth, or refuse him? 

Mme. Glyon. The latter, certainly. My life is tranquil 
and altogether given to art; his is full of the world and 
the world's friendships and flatteries; he has no need of 
any affections, they are '''bad form " and I — I have no 
need of them either. Art contents me, and some time or 
other kindly death will come and I shall forget that I have' 
ever suffered. ^^ 

Princess {with tears in Iter eyes). And suffer still. ^ 

Mme. Glyon. Of course. The utmost one gets after 
a mortal wound is some dull drowsy lulling of the pain 
from sheer habit of bearing with it, and the familiarity 
of time. 

[Servmit enters and announces Lady Cowes, Lady 
St. Asaph, Mme. GLYO]>r goes out as they ap- 
proach. 

Lady Coiues. Dear Prmcess, we are so late and it isn't 
your day, but we thought we must take a peep at you, 
though we cannot stop an instant. Lady St. Asaph had 
something very especial to say to you — to ask you. 

Princess {aside). I am sure it is to subscribe to a 
church, or to do something spiteful on my visiting-list. 
{Alotid.) I shall be so charmed if I can be any use. Yes? 
What is it? Do tell me, please! 

Lady St. Asaph {dropping her voice). Could you — 
would you mind — pray do not think me too personal — 
but would you tell me if Madame Glyon is really going to 
marry Aldred Dorian? 

Princess. Mr. Dorian? No; I don't think so — I don't 
know. What made you think of it? 

Lady St. Asaph. Oh, everyone is talking about it; 
they say it is definitely arranged, and it would be so very 
— very — very—YBUY dreadful. 

Princess {sharply). Dreadful? Why? 

Lady St. Asaph. Oh, dear Princess, you see Aldred 
Dorian in a sort of cousin of ours— distant, but still a 



46 AFTERKOOlS. 

con sin — the sixteenth Lord St. Asaph married a Dorian 
of Deepdene. Of course he has always been very strange 
and odd, caring for nothing but painting, and throwing 
away all his chances; but still he is a cousin of ours and 
of heaps of other people too, and if you do know any- 
thing of this marriage, I do entreat you to tell me the 
truth. 

Princess. I don't know anything of it; but if the thing 
were so, wliat would it matter? why would it be dreadful? 
Yow know that Madame Glyon is my guest and my friend. 

Lady Cowes {implori^igly). Oh, dear Princess, pray do 

not be quite too vexed with us. We remembered your 

Wfa..affeetion for her, but for all that we resolved to come and 

jL\^k you frankly to tell us the truth, 
com Lady St. Asaph. And beg you to stop this marriage 
without scandal; that is the great thing to do. Aldred 
jJorian is so headstrong; if there were any opposition, it 
would make him ten times more determined. 

Princess, But why should I stop it? Mind, T don't 
know anything about it; but why should I try to stop it 
if I did? 

Lady St. Asaph {lowering her voice). Dear Princess, 
you are very young, and you have a very warm heart, and 
you will let an old woman, who knows this wicked world 
better than you do, tell you something painful — that it 
is necessary you should know? You will allow me? 

Princess, I never knew anyone wish to tell me any- 
thing unless it were painful! Yes; pray say it out. I am 
very inquisitive. 

Lady Coives. You know we can only have one motive: 
to save Dorian and to open your eyes. 

Lady St, Asaph, And I feel that you ought to know it. 

Princess. To know what? Oh, please be quick! 

Lady St. Asaph. Well — that — well, I never can bear 
to say these things; for, after all, one cannot be sure, and 
one can never be too charitable — but still, sometimes it is 
one's dutv— dear Princess, what did you know of Madame 
Glyon? 

Princess, She was at the convent where I was. 

Lady St, Asaph, Ah, quite so; but who was she? 

Princess, Of very humble birth, I believe; she never 
disguises it; she is not ashamed of it. 

Lady St, Asaph, Ah, I see; dear sweet creature, your 



AFTERNOON. 47 

goodness and your innocence naturally lead you to be too 
trustful; but indeed, you will allow me to advise you — 
you will make some excuse for bringing the lady's yisit to 
you to a close. We know for certain, on most unim- 
peachable authority, that M. Glyon never existed. You 
will understand me? 

Princess {coloring), I really don't. I don't care the 
least for M. Glyon; I love Claire. 

Lady Cotoes. Ah, dear Princess, that is so sweet and 
unsuspecting! Of course you fall a pre}- 

Lady St, Asaph. It was Aldred Dorian's 'infatuation 
that led me to make inquiries at the proper sources of in- 
formation. You really do not seem to see the matter in 
its true and very serious light. There has never been a 
M. Glyon. The whole thing, name and marriage and all, 
is false. She is a clever artist, no doubt — at least, they 
say so; but she is quite — quite unfit for the honor of your 
affection and protection. They told me in the very strict- 
est confidence at the French Embassy 

Princess {rising and speaking qtiichly). Then please. 
Lady St. Asaph, keep tlieir confidence. You must think 
the very worst of me if you like, but I will not hear another 
word against Claire. 

Lady Coives. But she has an assumed name. 

Lady St. Asaph. There never was a M. Glyon. 

Lady Coives. They say she has two millions worth of 
diamonds; how did she get them? 

Lady St, Asaph. Aldred Dorian will close society 
agjiinst him forever if he marry her. 

Lccdy Coives. You know, everybody knows she does 
not paint her own pictures — she never did. 

Lady St. Asaph. If you will only allow me, I can 
prove to you that you harbor a mere adventuress. 

Princess. Oh, please don't make me quarrel with you; 
I should be so sorry to have to do that; but not a word 
more must you say. You are all wrong, entirely wrong; 
and as for her marrying Aldred Dorian, she will no more 
marry him than I shall. 

Lady St. Asa2Jh. So potdtive an assurance from you is a 
great comfort, for you must know so much better than 
anyone else. But some day when you are calmer about 
it, I think I shall convince you that French artists with 
feigned names are very compromising guests. 



48 AFTERIS^OOis". 

Lady Coioes. Dear Princess, you have told me your- 
self that her husband was cruel to her. 

Princess. So he was. 

Lady Cowes and Lady St, Aspah (together). But if he 
never existed? 

Princess. He did — he does. 

Lady Goioes and Lady ^t. Asaph {in chorus). Does! 
Then she is not a Avidow? She is separated? 

Princess {impatiently). If she be, at least Aldred Do- 
rian is safe from her! You will pardon me if I ask you 
to leave my friend^s name in peace. 

Lady St, Asaph {softly). If one only knew what her 
name is! Oh, I am so quite too grieved that I have vexed 
you, but really I thought you ought to know what they 
say. 

Priyicess. " They say " has killed many friendships 
and much happiness, but it won't kill mine and Claire's. 
Won't you have some tea? No? Oh, you have not vexed 
me. One is not vexed at what is not in the very least 
true. 

Lady St. Asaph {with a sigh). How beautiful such 
confidence is! But, alas! dear Princess, when you are as 
old as I you will have learnt that there is no enemy so 
dangerous and so costly as belief in others! We shall 
meet to-night? You will be en leaute, I am sure, and I 
hear Rodrigues has done something marvelous for you in 
humming-birds and ivory satin. Au revoir — don't be 
angry, love! 

Princess {left alone). Oh, the old cats! the horrid old 
cats! And I am quite sure I answered so badly; and I let 
them know that her husband was alive! Two millions 
worth of diamonds! Claire! who won't wear as much as 
a silver bangle, and spends all her money on the poor of 
Paris! Oh, the horrid old cats! Poking'into everybody's 
cupboards, and if they see a cobweb declaring it's a skele- 
ton! I haven't told any of them any stories yet, but I 
think — I shall begin. Intrusion ought to be answered by 
invention. If only Claire would declare herself! — but she 
never will. Of course as she has had the strength to keep 
silent all these twelve years, she will go on doing so. 
Carlino! Carlino! {TlieViii^c^ enters.) Will you tell 
me one thing, truthfully if you can? Do people ever ask 
you questions about Claire's husband? 



AFTERXOOK. 49 

Prince. Mia cara ! I think they do, now you name it. 

Princess, And what do you answer! 

Prince. Mia cara, I know nothing of the gentleman, 
so what can I say? She does not produce her husband, 
and I think you said he was dead; but whether he is dead, 
or in Russia, or in America, what does it matter? She is 
a handsome woman, and might amuse herself very well if 
she chose. I know two or three men who admire her 
greatly, only she has too much the air of the nemo me 
impime lacessit. 

Princess. You would like my female friends to be like 
yours, then? 

Prince, Amiability is always agreeable. I should be 
so glad if you would remember that. 

Princess. I will try and remember it, and you must 
not blame me if you dislike the results of my remem- 
brance. 

Prince. You mean some menace very profound, but I 
do not follow it. And I do not think you will ever get 
out of your regrettable habit of making little scenes about 
everything — you like them too well. 

Princess. I detest them, but when you insult me- 

Prince. Ah, ah! what is coming but a scene? Rather 
instruct me what I am to say about the dead or the van- 
ished husband of your friend. They do talk much about 
her just now! 

Priiicess. Say she is an angel, and that he was most 
utterly unworthy. 

Prince. Oh, cara mia, they would laugh at me for be- 
ing in love witli her. And as for being unworthy, every- 
one knows that husbands are always that; there is not a 
pretty woman in Europe whose husband is not a brute — 
if you listen to her. I am convinced you tell Montelupo 
I am a monster. 

Princess. Montelupo sees for himself that you outrage 
my feelings on every occasion. 

Prince. And he consoles you for the outrage. Ah, 
yes, that is just as it should be. 'Only, Montelupo is a 
puppy— a gruUo-^an inanity — an absolute ass — you might 
choose better, more creditably. 

Princess (aside). He has some decency left; he is jeal- 
ous. Perhaps he will tire of that horrid woman yet! 



50 AFTERNOON. 

(Aloud.) I find Montelupo quite charming; he has so 
mncli tact^ so much silent sympathy. 

Prince. And recompenses himself for his silence by 
boasting with both lungs in the club! 

Princess, And don't you boast^ sometimes? 

Prince {angrily). No, never. [ am not a monkey, all 
grimace, like your servo; and I tell you now, once for all, 
that though you can divert yourself as you please, and 
have any number of young men about you that you like, 
it is a number that you must have, and not anyone in es- 
pecial; for if I get laughed at about you, or hear my name 
dragged through the club, then, Signora Principessa — 

Princess, Oh, then you mean yon w^ill stand up in 
your shirt with a big saber? Very well. That will be 
very flattering to me. But the Duchess Danta will be 
very angry! 

[She leaves the room with a little laugh, and the 
Peikce stands disconcerted. He pours himself 
out a glass of Kilmmel at the tea-taUe, and says 
with a sigh, 

If she were not my wife, she would certainly be bewitch- 
ing. As it is — che seccatura ! 



Scene V. 

8ame room, five d'cloch next day. 
Present: L'Estrange and the Prinoess. 

U Estrange. Princess, in spite of your kind promises, 
which I am sure have been sustained by kind offices, Ma- 
dame Glyon remains for ever on the defensive with me. 
What is the reason? Do not spare my vanity in answer- 
ing me. 

Princess.. Well, I must tell you a secret if I am to 
answer you honestly. 

L'Estrange, I will be worthy of your confidence. 

Princess. Oh, it is not very much of one, only Claire 
would be angry if I spoke of it. You must know, then, 
that she and I were at the convent with — what did you 
call her the other day? — the poor young girl who had the 
misfortune to be your wife of a year. 



AFTERKOOIS^. 51 

JJ Estrange. I unclerst;ind. Madame Gljon remembers 
lier, pities her^ and so deems me a wretch? 

Princess. Exactly. Of course yon know it did make 
a terrible impression on all of us, and Claire being older 
than I, felt it more. I do not think anything you could 
ever say or do would change the imj)ression that she has 
of you. 

L' Estrange, She is very unjust; it is of no use to go 
over the old ground, yet it is strange that so serene a 
woman should show herself so implacable on a matter that 
can never have touched herself. 

Princess. She was attached to your wife; pity is very 
strong in such a woman as Claire. 

L' Estrange. She has none for me. 

Princess. My dear Lord L'Estrange, she probably is 
as convinced as I am that you never can possibly be a sub- 
ject for compassion. 

L^ Estrange. Be serious, dear Princess. Surely, by all 
I have said to you, you must believe that my admiration 
for your friend is so strong that it must be called by 
another word, _^ Therefore, her coldness to me is more than 
painful; it is so distressing to me th&t I am a fool to linger 
on in Rome. 

Princess. Oh, she is going back to Paris at Mi-careme. 
But, really and truly, with all this feeling for her, would 
it carry you so far as to make you commit another folly in 
marriage? 

IJ Estrange. You are her friend, and you call it a folly ? 

Princess. Certainly; from the world's point of view 
— v/hich your marriage with the gardener's daughter was. 
Claire is a famous woman, but she is not of high birth; 
she is not rich, and the ill nature of society has touched 
her. You know it is like London soot; it flies about by 
the merest accident, but if it smudges you, the smut makes 
you look foolish, though you be white as snow. 

L^ Estrange. Princess, she is your friend, therefore you 
will believe that I would not insult either you or herself 
by a mere frivolous curiosity. Will you let me ask you 
then honestly— is she. free to marry? 

Princess. To marry you? 

L^ Estrange. Well, put it so — is she? There is a ru- 
mor, more than a rumor, that Glyon is not dead. 

Princess, Bat would von marrv her? 



52 afternoo:n", 

JJ Estrange. Please answer my question first. 

Frincess. Then, yes; ten times over, yes; she can be 
your wife, if she wish it, with as clear a conscience as I 
am Cariiiio's. But do you wish it? That J doubt very 
much. 

^Estrange, I am beginning to wish it, passionately. 
I gave her to understand me so, last night. 

Princess. And what did she say? 

L^ Estrange. Nothing; we were interrupted; your rooms 
were so full. 

Princess. But seriously — you do not seriously mean 
that you are ready to give your title a second time to a 
woman without birth? 

L' Estrange. If 1 be willing to dow^ your friend with 
all I possess, it is not you, Princess, wo should quarrel 
with me. 8he has a grand genius, and I am sure a grand 
nature. They are worth sixteen quarterings, I am a 
conservative in some ways, but I have no prejudices. 

Princess. I am sure you mean what you say now, or 
you think you do; but I am so afraid that — you are so 
very changeable 

V Estrange, That is her idea. I am not so. 

Princess. I mean, you know, that when you see a rare 
piece of Celadon or Crackling that charms you, you bid 
against everybody, and would ruin yourself to have it 
knocked down to you. But, then, when you have it in 
your collection a little time, you begin to think — perhaps 
it is an imposture, perhaps it is not worth its money, per- 
haps somebody else has something like it, or something 
better; and then, little by little, you quite grow into dis- 
gust with the poor piece, and would like to put it out of 
your cabinets altogether, if you were only quite sure. 
Kow, one woman you have already treated like the bit of 
Celadon; and, though you are so eager now to pay any 
price for another, I am afraid you would feel much the 
same to her in time, ii you get your way. And Claire is 
not a mere piece of china; she is a very sensitive and very 
proud woman. 

E Estrange, You have a poor impression of me; j^our 
friend has inoculated you with her opinions. 

Princess. Can you deny that toward your china you 
do gradually grow from adoration to indifference, from 
indijfference to doubt, from doubt to downright disgust? 



AFTERNOON". 53 

L'Estrange. One always depreciates or overestimates 
what is one's own. But your parallel is not quite true. 
I have pieces of Old Vienna^ of Japanese, of Crackling, 
with which I have been satisfied for twenty years. It is 
only where there is a doubt that one grows whimsical and 
dissatisfied. 

Pi'mcess. Well, Claire to you would be like the china 
that you do doubt about. If you won her, you would 
always be saying to yourself, What does the world think 
of her? 

V Estrange, You make me a poor creature. 

Princess. No, no; only a connoisseur not easy with 
his MleUts unless the whole of mankind be envying them. 
Envy is the mark that society scratches on the very best 
of everything, as I believe they put double L's on the 
Bourbon Sevres. Unless your Sevres had the double L's, 
you would not care for it. 

L' Estrange, You are so witty. Princess, that it is im- 
possible to keep up with you, and I do not want wit to- 
day; I want sympathy. 

Princess, Try and get it from Claire. 

[Mme. Glyon enters, not seeing L'Estrange; she 
has a quantity of daffodils and narcissus in her 
hand. She speahs to the Princess. 

Laura, these arc lovelier than your camellias and azaleas. 
I will put them in your Venetian bowl {sees L'Estrange). 
You here again, Lord L'Estrange? Good morning. Why 
must one say morning even while vespers are sounding? 

U Estrange. Dinner is the only meridian we recog- 
nize, I never knew why we have not called it supper. 
You have got those flowers in the Doria woods, I think? 

Mme. Glyooi. Yes, I have been there with B6be. 

Princess. Ah, my Bebe! I must go and see him. I 
hope you nave not tired him, I am afraid he is getting to 
love you better than me. 

Mme. irlyon, I shall be gone in ten days, and then 
Bebe will forget, 

[Exit the Princess. L'Estrange apjjroaches Mme. 
Glyon as she is arranging the dcffodils, 

V Estrange, Do you believe it is so easy to forget you, 
even for Beb6? 



54 AFTERIS^OON. 

Mme. Glyon. Yes, it is very easy. Bebe is a boy; over 
his Easter eggs he will forget even what my face is like. 

L' Estrange. T do not think even Bebe at his mature 
years will be so faithless, I wish you would have more 
true conception of the bold you take upon us through 
your eyes, as Spaniards say. Most people have so far too 
much self-esteem. You err in the very opposite fault of 
self-detraction and self-depreciation. 

Mme. Glyon, No; I know where my strength lies and 
where my weakness does. I can force the world into ad- 
mii-ation of my works, but I never yet could influence a 
living being. Some people are like that; their power of 
volition is expended on their art; in the facts of life they 
are weak, and write their names in water. 

L' Estrange: You write yours in fire on men's memo- 
ries. Will you let me say again what I said ill last night? 
Will you 

Mme. Glyon. Leave it unsaid; I will consider it un- 
said. You spoke on a mere impulse — a whim of the mo- 
ment. We all know such a whim cost you dear once. 

V Estrange. Can you never leave in oblivion that one 
folly? After all, it was no crime. 

Mme. Glyon. I think it was one. I may be hyper- 
critical, 

L" Estrange, If it were, leave it in its grave. 

Mme. Glyon, In her grave. 

L^ Estrange, You are most unjust. One moment you 
call my hapless marriage a whim, the next a crime. It 
cannot be both. If I be such a poor light piece of this- 
tledown, I cannot seriously be loaded with responsibili- 
ties so weighty. I cannot see what that one action of my 
past can have to do with you. 

Mme. Glyon. Nothing; only, I am quite well aw^are 
that what you profess to feel for me is of no more worth, 
and will have no longer life, than what you felt for the 
gardener's daughter of whom you made a countess. 

L' Estrange. Good heavensi how shall I convince you? 
Can you compare yourself one instant, in your genius, 
your brilliancy, your fame, to that poor child whose mer^ 
physical loveliness, for an hour of summer-pass'^"' "lade 
me lose my wits and brave the'laughter of the "^o/'ld? 

Mme. Glyon {loohing at him sternly). The^® ^s not so 
very vast a difference. I am of the people. yQUj* world. 



AFTEEXOOX. 00 

if it do not laugh at me, often slanders me. To love mc, 
a man would need to be indifferent to comment and to in- 
nuendo; no coward before conventionality, and deaf as a 
marble wall to the envenomed buzz of chattering tongues. 
Lord L'Estrange, you are not such a man. 

V Estrange, 1 could become such — for you. 

Mme. Glyon, You think so at this moment. I believe 
you to be sincere. But you deceive yourself. You never 
would resist the pressure of social opinion. You see me 
through your own eyes now, and do me more than justice; 
but, if I listened to you, soon — very soon — you would see 
me through the eyes of others, and little by little you 
would quarrel with yourself once more for having been a 
fool. 

L'Estrange {Utterly). Ah! You can reason so ably 
and so coldly because I do not touch a fiber of your sym- 
pathies; I do not for a moment quicken a pulse of your 
heart! If you had the faintest feeling for me, you would 
not condemn me with such chilly logic. 

Mme. Glyon (J.ooTcing doivn on the daffodils), I am not 
insensible to the honor you do me, and I believe in the 
momentary sincerity of your assurances. But — that is all. 

L'Estrange {passionately). What can I say to make 
you believe? 

Mme. Glyon. ISTothing would make me believe in the 
duration of the fantasy that moves you this idle Carnival 
time, and will have left you, as my memory wd 11 have left 
Beb6 by Easter-day. 

[She rings. A servant enters. 

Mme. Glyon {to Servant). Bring water for this bowl 
of flowers. Lord L'Estrange, why do you distress your- 
self and me? Go— go in peace; and when you awake out 
of this momentary madness, as you will do very soon, you 
will say to yourself, '^ How nearly I committed a second 
folly because a woman's pictures had a morlidezza and a 
fancv in them that I liked!" 

L Estrange, You are cruel! You are unjust! You 
are utterly wrong. 

Mjne. Glyon, Here is Giovanni with the water. He 
understands English very well. 

L Estrange, But if I could convince you of the sin- 
cerity of my feelings — of their constancy— would there be 
anything on your side to forbid your listening to me? 



56 ^FTERNOOK. 

Mme. Glyon, It is mere waste of time to* discuss the 
impossible. 

L' Estrange, At least do me the justice of a frank re- 
pl)'. Would you be free to grant me what I solicit? 

Mme. Glyon. What do you mean? 

L' Estrange. I mean in plain words — is Grlyon dead? 

Mme. Olyon, Were there a shadow of claim on me 
from any other, you may be sure I would not have let you 
speak such words as you have done. But these questions 
are very idle. Lord L'Estrange, in plain words, since you 
ask them, I refuse you. 

Ij Estrange. I will leave you. You will make my ex- 
cuses to the Prince. [Exit. 

[8he completes the arrangements of the flowers and 
then dismisses the servant. Alone , she sinhs into a 
seat and bursts into tears. 

He loves me now! And if I could keep up the comedy, 
he would love me, perhaps, always. I might marry him 
again, and he need never know the truth. But I would 
not Avin him by a lie — it would be too base. Maybe, even 
as far as I have gone is wrong; and yet it was such temp- 
tation to see his cold heart day by day warm and soften 
toward me, and his fastidious fancy find in me his ideal. 
And he is so dear to me — so dear! How could he not 
know that I resented so passionately because I loved so 
well! Maybe even now we might be happy — no, not if he 
knew the truth. I should lose all my charm for him; he 
would be once more afraid of all my antecedents; he would 
be once more seeing the peasant in my step, in my voice, 
in my habits; he thinks me a muse, a goddess, now — but 
if he knew! He is so utterly the unconscious slave of his 
fancy, he is so entirely under the dominance of mere ca- 
price, that when he learned that he was in love with his 
own wife, he would be disenchanted like a child who sees 
the fairy of a pantomime, stripped of her gossamer wings 
and golden crown, trudging through mud, in common 
every-day attire. He is entirely the creature of his fancy, 
as the child is. And I could not risk it again — the grad- 
ual disillusion, the impatience that only courtesy con- 
trolled, the fading away of tenderness into dissatisfaction, 
the changing of adoration into incessant criticism; no, I 
could never bear them now. Better that we should for 



AFTERNOON. 



ever live apart. I have art; he has the world. He will bo 
happy; in three months' time he will have forgotten my 
rejection. And yet, oh heaven! how Imrd it is not to cry 
out to him — My love! my love! 



SCEKE VI. 

Dorian^s Studio, 

Present: Lady Cowes, Lady St. Asaph, tlie Princess, 
Ipswich, Moktelupo. 

Princess, Is Dorian really gone? 

Lady St, Asaph, Oh, yes, to the Soudan. I am so 
thankful. 

Princess. Oh dear, how can you be! All his delightful 
life in Rome to be broken up like this, and all these de- 
licious things to be sold — it is too utterly vexing; and his 
Tuesday teas for us in Carnival were the very pleasantest 
things one had— how can you say 3'OU are thankful? and 
that delicious negro and the 7iieUo teapot! 

Lady St. Asaph. Dear Princess, you know why 1 am 
thankful. A temporary break-up is very much better for 
him than a lifelong misfortune, and you can buy the tea- 
pot at the sale; the negro is gone with him to Africa. 

Lady Cowes, And of course he will come back with 
another negro in a year or two, and begin to buy teapots 
again, and get tapestries together in a new studio. It was 
the very wisest thing he could do to go. 

Ip^swich, Is it true. Princess, that your handsome 
friend sent him to the Soudan because she is trying it on 
with L'Estrange? 

Lady Oowes, Everyone knows that. Lord Ipswich, ex- 
cept, perhaps, the Princess. 

Princess [hastily). It is utterly false. 

Lady Coiues and Lady St, Asaph {together). Oh, dear 
Princess! 

Princess. Utterly false! If you must know, she re- 
fused to marry both Aldred Dorian and Lord L'Estrange. 
There! you make me say mean things — things I never 
ought to say — because you are so obstinate, so untrue, so 
unkind. 



.58 AITERNOOX. 

Lady St. Asa^jh {angrily). She certainly did nofc re- 
fuse Aldred Dorian. We talked to him — we are cousins 
— and he said how right we were, and determined to go 
to Africa. 

Princess. As if Dorian was such a contemptible creat- 
ure as to be talked to — talked over! Of course you don't 
believe me, but I know she refused him here in this very 
studio. 

Lady Cowes. She told you so, I suppose? 

Princess. No, she did not. Dorian told me himself. 
He was wretched. He will never be the same man or the 
same artist again 

Ipsimch {laughing). And is L'Estrange wretched? On 
my word, I don't see it. He was buying brocades in the 
Ghetto this morning with all the zest imaginable. 

PiHncess. His soul never rises above brocades and 

/hiljeUts! No, I don't mean that; he can be very nice, 

very charming, but it makes me angry to see how he does 

absorb himself in old rubbish. It is better than horses, 

though. 

Lady St. Asaph, I though you said he was in love Avith 
your friend? She certainly is entirely modern, as nobody 
ever heard of her till five years- ago! 

Princess. Oh, you mean till all Paris crowded to her 
great picture of the **G-leaners." Well, no artist can be 
heard of until something's exhibited. 

Ipswich. Come, Princess, you don't mean seriously 
that she has thrown over L'Estrange? 

Princess, I am very sorry I said it. I ought not to 
have said it; but as I have said it, I can't unsay it, and it 
is true. 

Ipswich, Well — it beats me! — when his marriage twelve 
years ago was such a blunder. 

Lady St. Asaph, There cannot be any question of any- 
thing half so innocent as even a stupid marriage. Ma- 
dame Griyon's husband is alive — the Princess told us so the 
other day. 

Princess, You quite misunderstood what I meant, and 
my friend is quite free to marry Lord L'Estrange if she 
choose to marry him. 

Lady Coives. Well, I think he had better ask a few 
questions in Paris first — the questions you should have 
asked, dear Princess! 



AFTEKKOON. 59 

Princess. I never do ask questions about my friends, 
I was born in a country-house on the St. Lawrence, where 
nobody is supposed to know good manners, and I was 
taugiit that to sneak behind anybody's back, to pry about 
them, was a very vulgar sort of thing to do. But, in so- 
ciety, everybody does seem to me to be vulgar. 

[Lady Cowes and Lady St. Asaph laugh slightly. 

Ipsivich. AVell, yes, society is a bit of a cad, there's no 
doubt about it; we do slang one another so awfully. Here's 
L'Estrange; come to look after the niello teapot, I'll be 
bound. 

L^ Estrange {salutes them and adds to Lady St. Asaph). 
I cannot tell you how sorry I am about Dorian. Are 
these things really to be sold? 

Ipsioich^ There! That's all he thinks about. He 
wants the teapot and the tapestries. To have one's friends 
really interested in one's disappearance or death, one must 
have got together a lot of good things in pots and pans 
and bed-curtains and old iron. 

V Estrange. Are they really to be sold? 

Lady St, Asajjh. Oh, yes; he does not mean to come 
back. 

L^ Estrange. He will come back. No one can stay 
away from Eome who once has cared for it? 

Lady St. Asajoh. But they are all to be sold; he has 
left all directions to Costa's judgment. 

L^ Estrange. He is great friends with Costa. I am so 
very sorry; few have so fine a mind as Dorian; few give one 
such genial companionship. 

Princess. And such delightful Tuesday teas. How v/e 
shall miss those Tuesdays with those solemn tapestries 
frowning at our frivolity! 

Lady St. Asaph. We must be going homeward. Good- 
day, dear Princess; v/e shall meet at Madame Minghetti's. 

[Exit ivith Lady Cowes and Ipswich. 

Princess. I have to wait here for Carlino. He wants 
to look over the things before any regular arrangement is 
made about them. It seems Dorian has some wonderful 
trasferato work in steel and silver. 

L' Estrange. Yes; 1 know it; it is exquisite. I will see 
Costa at once^ and try and buy everything as it stands, 



60 AFTEKKOON". 

without letting a sale come on. Dorian is terribly mis- 
taken to think of selling his things. One should never 
do that. 

Princess, Lord L'Estrange, T said just now that you 
cared for nothing but brocades and dric-a-brac. It seemed 
a little harsh when I had said it, but you see it is true. 
You are feeling nothing for Aldred Dorian; you are only 
thinking of buying his things, just as Oarlino is. 

V Estrange, Princess, I am thinking of buying them, 
it is true; but I am only thinking of it for this reason — 
that I want to keep the atelier together just as Dorian left 
it, so that when he comes back, as he will certainly do, 
he can have it all again if he please to have it; he will only 
need to hand me over my purchase-money. I do not like 
Dorian^s things to be dispersed. 

Princess, Oh — h — h! I beg your pardon, I did mis- 
judge you. But how can you go buying brocades at the 
Ghetto when you pretend to be miserable about Claire's 
indifference? 

U Estrange. Vun n^empeclie ])as Vautre, One's hab- 
its are a part of oneself; one puts them on as one puts 
one's boots on in the morning. Besides, you must re- 
member I do not ^'sorrow as those that have no hope." 
I believe that Madame Glyon will come in time to do me 
justice, as you have now done in a lesser matter. 

Princess. But she is going away. 

V Estrange. To Paris? Well, I usually spend the 
spring in Paris. I do not foresee any great obstacle in her 
return to Paris. If there were no greater 

Princess, And you really would make her your Count- 
ess? 

V Estrange. I would really make her my Countess, if 
you like that Court-circular form of expression. I prefer 
to say that I would make her my wife. It seems the warmer 
term. 

Princess. Do you know, Lord L'Estrange, I am getting 
quite fond of you? 

L' Estrange. I am too charmed. 

Princess, I never thought you had so much feeling; 
and it isn't only evanescent, is it? 

V Estrange. As far as I know myself, it is not. It is 
of this that I want you to persuade your friend. She got 
rid of me yesterday by means of da&odils and a servant^ 



AFTEKXOON. 61 

and it is difficult for me to approach her again yet. She 
was so very cold. Indeed, she seems always disposed to 
resent as an impertinence the highest compliment that a 
man can pay to a woman. ^^^^ 

Princess. Well, I have done all I can. But Claire has 
her own view — it is difficult to change them. I think you 
will do better not to worry her. 

U Estrange. Worry her! You certainly do treat one 
to rough facts, Princess. I suppose what you mean is that 
one must ride a waiting-race. 

Princess. Yes, that is what I do mean. I quite un- 
derstand your impatience. You are a very great person, 
and you have got a very high place, and you would give 
all you have to Claire, and you naturally expect your gen- 
erosity to meet at least with gratitude. Only you see it 
is all spoilt in her eyes by the fact that you were equally 
generous to that poor peasant girl, and repented it. 

L'Estrange. I think it hard that a long past folly, 
which was after all a chivalrous folly, should for ever be 
quoted against me. 

Princess. Perhaps ifc is hard, but it is good for you to 
taste a wholesome bitterness for once. You have been 
fed on honey. {The Prince enters.) Carlino, it is no 
use your fretting over the trasferato; Lord L'Estrange is 
going to buy up everything by a private arrangement. 

Prince. Is that so, caro mio f 

L^ Estrange. I am going to try and do it, at any rate. 
It is folly to break up this charming atelier, Dorian will 
certainly return. 

Prince. When he has ceased to break hig heart about 
La Glyon. Laura should send that lady back to Paris: 
she makes mischief here. There is Sant' Elmo now wild 
to marry her, and he is Ion ^prince and enormously rich, 
and a handsome lad too; she will take him, I dare say. 

Princess. No, she will not; you will not under,stand, 
Carlino. She does not want to marry — again. 

Prince. Oh, yes; she is a muse, and all that, but she 
will take a very. big thing when it comes to her. Dorian 
was not a very big thing; he was only a fairly nice thing. 
That was not enough for your friend. She is ambitious. 
One sees that in the way her head is poised. Now, Sant' 
Elmo is a grand marriage; you cannot have a grander — off 



62 AFTEKNOOK. 

a throne: Roman prince, Spanish duke^, Hungarian mar- 
graf, and rich — ouf! — if I were only as rich! 

Princess {low to L'Estrakge). Don't you feel as if 
yon were at Christie's or the Drouot, bidding against Lord 
Dudley for a vieux Vienne cup? 

V Estrange. I did not need the stimulus. 

Prince. Lord L'Estrange, shall we go together to the 
Via Margutta? If Costa refuse to let you purchase en Hoc, 
I should like to say a word to him about the trasferato. 

L^ Estrange. Certainly. The Princess comes' with us? 

Priiicess. No; I shall stay here till Claire comes^ and 
then we are going very far out to some convent to see 
some Madonna of Mino's that no male eyes must profane. 

[Mme. GtLYON enters. The Prin-ce and L'Esteange 
how to her and go out, 

Claire, he is going to buy all Dorian's things and keep 
them till Dorian comes back. Isn't it nice of him? Do 
you know, he ^'s very nice when you understand him. . I 
do — I doj indeed, think you ai^ in error. 

Mme. Glyon. I know that I have been in error when I 
came into this room. I allowed a noble nature like Do- 
rian's to fasten its hopes on me, which he never would 
have done if we had not, tacitly at any rate, led him to 
believe that my husband was not living. I can never for- 
give myself the wreck of Dorian's happy and noble life; 
but, if you will believe me, until he spoke of it here, I 
never dreamed of his feeling for me anything more than 
that sympathy which the same tastes and art beget. 

Princess. And now Carlino says there is Sant' Elmo? 

Mme. Glyon. Oh, that handsome boy will find many to 
console him. Dorian is very different — to him I have been 
guilty. 

Princess. And I think you are — not altogether right 
to Lord L'Estrange. 

Mme. Glyon, How can anyone in a false position be 
altogether right to anyone? A false position is like a 
wrong focus in photography; it distorts everything. My 
motives in all I have done have been innocent enough, but 
concealment always ends in some sin or another. 

Princess. No, no— sin is too big a word — too ugly a 
word; it does not suit you at all. Your worst faults are 
pride and oversensitiveness; they are no very grave ones. 



afier:nook. 63 

But indeed, Claire, he does love you now^ not only with 
his fancy. I cannot see why you should not tell him. 

Mjne, Glyon. He would be disenchanted in one in- 
stant. He is only captive by his imagination. The other 
day he saw the cast of my foot at Story's studio, and 
found it perfect; if he knew now that it had ever orone in 
wooden shoes over the plowed fields, he would find at 
once that the ankle was too thick or the instep too high. 
Alas! I know him so well — so well! 

Princess. And you make him out a fool. 

Mme. Glyon. Oh, no; only a dilettante full of caprice. 

Princess. Well, I think you wrong him. 1 have said 
so fifty times; and I never thought to live to say so, either. 
Would you let me try the experiment I told you of the 
other day? He ought at least to know you live. If you 
continue to reject him, he may turn for solace to some one 
else; then he may want to marry that some one else, and 
then you will have to tell him, coute que coHte. 

Mme. Glyon. Oh, no; I have kept silence twelve years. 
I can very well keep it all my life. And you will never 
betray me? 

Princess. ISTever, unless you bid me. But I think you 
do very wrongly. You are of that sort of nature which 
self-sacrifice fascinates; and because an act is a martyr- 
dom, 3^ou cannot also imagine that it may be at the same 
time an error. 

Mme. Glyon. Laura! you grow quite logical and subtle 
in your arguments; I never knew you thought out things 
so much. 

Princess. I think them out because I love you, and I 
see your whole life going to waste; no, not to waste, be- 
cause your works are fine, and you spend all your days do- 
ing good; but barren of all happiness, of all sympathy, of 
all tenderness, and even, you know, subject to the rumors 
of lying tongues. 

Mme. Glyon. That last does not matter. 

Princess. Oh, no; you are very proud, and falsehood 
cannot touch you; but still it tells, somehow, when the 
world crowns you with one hand and scourges with the 
other. Will you let me try my experiment — just try it? 

Mme, Glyon. It would be unwise, and it would be use- 
less; I am sure he would take his release so gladly on 
any terms. 



hmiw^^ 



04 AFTERXOOls^ 



Princess. That is what I will see if you will let me. 
Do think it over. Tell me to-night. I don't wush to 
persuade, but indeed — indeed, Olaire — it is not fair to 
him to let him go on in ignorance, in a fool's paradise; 
and if he do know, and behaves unworthily, he will never 
force you to live with him— he is too truly a gentleman, 

Mme, Glyo7i, He will have no wish, my dear, when 
once he knows, ever to see my face again. Try your ex- 
periment, as you call it; but if he would take his liberty 
so, remember, I will be dead to him for ever, though I 
hide myself in the uttermost ends of the earth. 

Princess. That, of course. But if he be loyal to his 
forgotten wife, then you will pardon him? 

[Mme. Glyok is silent. 

Princess. Silence is assent. Let us drive to the con- 
vent, and we will not speak another word. I have all my 
fibs to fabricate. 

Mme. Glyon. He will accept. 

Princess, He will refuse! \Exeunt, 



Scene VIT. 

In the Cimontcmara Grounds; o?i the stone seat of S. Pi- 
lippo Neri are seated L'Estrange a^id the Prikcess; 
» facing them are the Campagna, Porta Ban Giovanni, 
the mountains of Albano. 

Princess. In this stone summerhouse S. Philip, your 
namesake, preached to the giddy youths that loved him. 
Now I, who am very giddy, am going to preach to you. 
I asked you to come here because I am never sure of be- 
ing interrupted in my own house, and I have to tell you 
something very, very serious. 

V Estrange. I am sure you are my friend, Princess. 

Princess, . I am. But my friendship can be of little 
use to you. Now Olaire does care for you — cares for you 
as you wish, but 

V Estrange. Never mind the ^^buts!" How can I 
thank you. Princess? 

Princess. It will be a folly, you know. Another folly! 

1/ Estrange. I do not think so. 



AFTERNOON. 65 

Princess. And you did not think so once of the other. 
Are yon sure you will not change? 

L' Estrange. I dare swear I shall not. 

Princess. But if the world 

L' Estrange. The world will haye no power over me. 

Princess. It had twelve years ago. 

V Estrange. Pray let the past alone. I want to live 
in the present. What you have told me this morning 
makes it as cloudless as the day is. 

Princess. Wait! I have much to tell you. 

V Estrange, What else can matter? I am happy. 

Princess. Ah, don't say so: wait till you hear every- 
thing. Claire could have cared for you, but I feel 

frightened to tell you, but 

jy Estrange {growing pale). Glyon is not dead? 

Princess. It is not that. Maitre Jules Desrosne, the 
great French advocate, you know, is in Rome. He has 
come for the French Cardinals 

L* Estrange. What has that to do with me? 

Princess. Well, I don't know how to tell you, but I 
must; and I could not, if there were not some consolation 
in it too; but Maitre Desrosne has known me from a child 
— he defended a case for my father against the French 
Oovernment — and as he heard the gossip of Rome, which 
made out that Claire was going to marry you next week, 
he told me to tell you something, which he thought I 
might break to you better than he could, as you have 
never known him. 

L' Estrange. Well? Speak out. Princess. What is 
this terrible thing that a French lawyer knows? 

Princess. Oh, do not jest; pray do not jest. Maitre 
Desrosne is quite distressed for you: it is — it is, that your 
young wife did not die. 

L' Estrange. Whatf 

Princess. Yes, that is it — that is what he says; she is 
alive — he knows her very well; he has been her counsel. 

L^ Estrange. Good God! Are you mad, or am I? 

Princess. Nobody is; oh, pray do not look so; you 
-frighten me. You look as if I had turned you into stone. 
[L'EsTRANGE 7Hses and moves about with his face 
averted. 

VEstrnnge. I will not frighten you, Princess. Only 



CG AFTERNOON, 

give me one moment to get my breatli— you have stunned 
me. 

Princess {murmuring). I am so sorry! Desrosne could 
not tell you before, because he only knew it in confidence, 
as her adviser; she gave him permission now because she 
heard of your 

L^ Estrange. But how can it be? She was drowned, 
and it was bupposed her body was washed out by the un- 
derground waters to tlie Seine. 

Princess. Oh, yes; that is quite true. I mean, it is 
quite true that she did throw herself into the moat, and 
meant to drown herselt; but her father had come to the 
convent, begging to be taken on as gardener there for the 
sake of being near her; and Maitre Desrosne tells me that 
her father rescued her from the water when she had sunk 
twice unseen — for it was twilight— and hid himself with 
her for some time, in the cottage of a forester who was his 
friend. She heard you thought her dead, and let it be so. 
She had friends amongst the convent girls; one of them 
she wrote to, and confided in, and asked how she could 
gain a livelihood. That girl was going back to her own 
country for the vacation, and as she loved your wife, took 
her with her to her own people. In that country she main- 
tained herself by teaching; she would not be dependent 
on her friends, though they were rich. When they came 
to Europe, she, I believe, came with them. All this 
Maitre Desrosne has known for years. 

V Estrange. Where is she now? 
^ Princess. You do frighten me! Carlino's violence is 
not one half so terrible as your English quietude. Your 
eyes look as if you saw a ghost 

U Estrange, I do see— many. Not dead, good God! — 
and I — hear it as the worst calamity that could befall mel 
Not dead? Not dead? 

Princess. No; Maitre Desrosne has known her seven 
years. He should have told you earlier. 

V Estrange, He should, indeed. 

Princess, But I suppose he could not. Lawyers are 
like confessors. Your wife has lived honorably. 

L' Estrange. Ah! 

Princess, She has maintained herself here, and \vl 
America. 

L' Estrange. She has been in America? 



AFTEllKOO]Sr, 6? 

Princess. So he says. You will wish to see her? 

L^ Estrange {luitli a shudder). Do not talk of it! I 
will endeavor to do my duty. 

Princess. But if she were so contrary to all your tastes, 

and v/ishes tlien, will she be less so now? Twelve years 

passed in hard work does not give the bloom of Ninon, 

and you — you are not less fastidious now than then. Wiiab 

^ a future for you! 

L^ Estrange. Spare me! This advocate will give me 
means of proving all that he has said? 

Princess. Oh, yes; he will, of course. I do not think, 
tbou2:!K that she wants you to take her back. 

[L'EsT RANGE covers Ms eyes with his hand a moment. 

Princess. And I do know Claire cares for you. 

L' Estrange. Spare me a little. Princess! Where is 
this Maitre Desrosne? I must see him at once. 

Princess, He stays at the Farnese Palace. 

L' Estrange. You believe he speaks the truth? 

Princess. He must! He is so great a person in the 
law; he will be a Judge whenever he pleases; he has your 
wife's letters with him. And — and — he said something 
lelse, Lord L'Estrange, which gave me courage to tell you 
this; if he had not said the good with the bad, I never 
jGonld have dealt you such a blow; for you know I have 
g-ot quite fond of you since you loved Claire. 

L^ Estrange. What good can there be? 

Princess. Well, it seems that when she returned to 
Prance, years ago, your wife went to him with an intro- 
duction from a French bishop, and told him her position, 
and asked him as to the legality of her marriage, of which 
she had become gjiioubtful. Now, Maitre Desrosne told 
me 

U Estrange. What? 

Princess. Well, that the marriage is not a perfectly 
^ legal one— not perfectly; that there are loop-holes by which 
you could get free — some omission of some trifle, some 
blunder in the date of your wife's birth through the stu- 
pidity of her own people— no fault of yours — but you at- 
tended too much to the religious ceremony and not enough 
to the civil one. He would explain it better, but his strong 
opinion is that you can break the marriage; annul it, if 
you please; he is sure that both France and England will 
set yoa free. If he had not said that, I never should have 



6S AFTERKOOH. 

summoned courage to tell you, knowing as I do, too, that 
Claire's happiness is at stake. 

[L'EsTEANGE loolcs at her in silence. 

Princess. How you do look! Indeed, indeed, Maitre 
Desrosne said so, and you can see himself any day you 
like; he stays a month at the Palazzo Farnese. He bad 
gone into the question years ago for your wife au grand 
secret, and he is one of the very greatest lawyers in all , 
France. He never would give an opinion lightly. 

[L'EsTRANGE is still silent. 

Princess. Do say something! You frighten me! Per- 
haps I should have told you the good news first. You 
don't look now one bit more glad. 

U Estrange (rising and standing facing her). Princess, 
I do not know what you take me for; that this poor creat- 
ure lives is most terrible to me, that I do not deny. I 
am no saint, as was St. Philip ISTeri. But, if you believe 
I could take advantage of a legal quibble to cast shame 
upon a woman who in her youth trusted me, — well! you 
have known me very little, though we have spent so many- 
pleasant hours together. 

Princess. But, heavens and earth! I thought you loved 
Claire? 

V Estrange. You know well that I do love her most 
dearly, but I cannot stoop to dishonor even for her: the 
very basest sort of dishonor, too. Just heavens! to hire 
men of law to hound down in the dust a hapless soul who 
gave herself to me in all good faith and innocence! Can 
you think I would deny her rights, whatever they may 
cost me, merely because some forgotten minutiae of men's 
trumpery laws have lost them to her? '; 

Princess, You refuse to free yourself? 

L' Estrange. At such a price I must refuse, or be a 
scoundrel. My life will be most wretched if all you say 
is true; but, at least, it will not be foul with perfidy and^ 
cowardice. . 

Princess. Ah ! ah ! there are depths in you to be stirred! 

I was right! And now Well — well — perhaps, you 

know, you will not be so very wretched after all! The 
aftermath may be richer than the first crop was. You 

will bless Time the mower. Yes, you will. Ask Claire 

[She rises and moves away,. 



AFTERNOON. 69 

Mme. GlyoinT advances slowly from leJiind the stone sum^ 

merliouse and the lay and artutus that grow ahout it. 

She holds out her hands to L'Esteange in a timid ap' 

peal. She says : 

Love! I forgive you. Will you forgive me? or will 

you despise me? 

[He starts and falls hack; then tahes her in his arms, ' 
L' Estrange, Great God! How could I be so blind ? 



AT CAMALDOLI. 

A SKETCH. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



DucA Di Bastia, 

MaRCHESE BELLA ROCCALDA. 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis. 
Padre Francesco. 



The Comtesse de Riom. 
Madame de Satntai^ge, 
Mrs. Yanscheldt. 



Sce:n^e: Tlie Hotelin the Monastery, 
\In the Pharmacy.'] 

Comtesse de Riom. It makes one long to be ill, to have 
an excuse to come here. 

Duca di Bastia. I need no excuse; I buy liqueurs. 

Comtesse de Miom. Did you ever see such exquisite 
old blue pots? All pure Savona. I have offered my soul 
for one of them, but tlie monks are obdurate. 

Duca di Bastia. Do not tempt them. Selling is the 
modern curse of Italy. It is a comfort to find that mon- 
astery walls can exclude the temptation; they too often do 
not^ and our angels are sold to shiver in the fogs of Lon- 
don and the snows of Berlin. 

Co?ntesse de Riom. Does not one get back into pure 
qi/attro cento here? Romeo's apothecary must have had 
just such conserve pots and sweet- water jars as these. 

Duca di Bastia. You would like my old palace at 
Sqnillace, madame; it has such quantities of such old pot- 
tery as this, all as dusty as the soul can desire. 

Comtesse de Riom. I should delight in dusting them. 

Duca di Bastia. How happy you would make me! I 
should envy the cobwebs. 

• (70) 



AT CAMALUOLI. 7i 

Comtesse de Riom. What! when I should destroy the 
cobwebs? 

Duca cli Bastia. It would be better to be destroyed 
than to be unnoticed. 

Comtesse di Riom. That is according to taste. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. How do you do, Duke? What ever 
are ?/oti doing at Camaldoli? 

Duca di Bastia. If it were not impolite to reply to one 
question by another, I sliould ask what do you — the idol 
of Paris, the queen of Aix, the reine gaillarde of London? - 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. All that is very pretty, but beiiiud 
my back I daresay you call me that horrid American; 
don't get off by a faux fiiyant; what makes you bury 
yourself in this pine- wood? 

Duca di Bastia. My adoration of Americans. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Don't expect me to believe that, 
when you might have married Elise Hicks last winter, with 
the biggest fortune that ever came out of Arkansas lum- 
ber. {To Madame de Riom.) He might indeed, and she 
was a very pretty girl too, and — my! — her pearls. 

Comtesse de Riom, ^The Duke was ungrateful. 

Duca di Bastia. As ungrateful as the monks who 
won't sell their pots. My prejudices and theirs have prob- 
ably the same roots. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. But why do you come to Camaldoli 
• — you? Can you live without a Club? 

Duca di Bastia, I find Camaldoli charming; a most 
admirably healthy air, p/erfect quiet; pine-woods which are 
so good for the lungs, and, as Madame de Eiom remarks, 
divine pharmacy-pots to keep alive in one the love of the 
fine arts. What can one ask more? Perhaps the cook- 
ery leaves something to be desired, but that is just the 
amount of mortification which one ought to be willing to - 
endure in a monastery. i 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. All the same you must be bored to ^ 
death, mon cher. Shall we get up a little baccara to- 
night? 

Duca di Bastia {hesitates), Madame de Eiom does not 
approve. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. What! is the Countess to be the 
keeper of ull our consciences? Then we shall be as dull 
as a Boston Sunday, for she sets her face dead against all 
fun. 



72 AT CAMALDOLI. 

Comtesse de Riom. You think me a Purifcan!' Indeed 
I am no such thing, but I detest all kinds of play; I have 
seen so much suffering caused by. it. 

Mrs. VanscJieldt (aside). Now she will preach like a 
young Dominican friar. 

Comtesse de Rio7n. No; I never preach; play if you like, 
but if you must play, why do you come to Camaldoli? 

Mrs. Va7ischeidt. I come to wait for Mr. Vanscheldt, 
who is in the course of crossing the ocean, and because, 
as the Duke wsely observes, the odors of the pine-woods 
are so good for the lungs; my lungs are seriously affected, 
only nobody ever will believe it. 

Duca di Bastia. Nobody will believe that mine are. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. I am sure we have both done our 
best that they should be. Did you come for your lungs, 
too. Countess? 

Comtesse de Riom. No; I came for quiet. But it seems 
that the world sends its echoes even up amongst these 
saintly hills, and you have brought as many fourgons as 
if you had come to Monaco in January. I have brought 
nothing but serge. 

Mrs, Vanscheldt. Serge smothered in Mechlin, how- 
ever. So much depends on what one can wear. You are 
such an elegant creature that you may put on sacking and 
you will look just as well. If I'm not dressed up to my 
eyes, I'm a dowdy, a fright — nobody 'd look at me — the 
very birds would peck at me. I wouldn't put on those 
plain tailor-made suits that you can wear if it were to 
save my life. 

Duca di Bastia. There is Saxe china pimpante and 
charming, and there are marble Venuses, white, serene, 
.superb. One may admire both. 

Mrs, Vanscheldt. Very prettily said, Duke. But I 
know you don't admire me; you told a friend of mine that 
I was like a doll out of the Palais Royal. 

Duca di Bastia. That friend must have thoroughly 
understood the mission of friendship. If I could hope 
that friend were of the masculine' gender 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. You would quarrel with him about 
a cigar or a newspaper, and hack him about afterward 
with a saber; I know your ways. Why will Italians always 
fight with sabers? It is very barbarous. 

Duca di Bastia. It is not pretty. The rapier is much 



AT CAMALDOLI. 73 

more elegant and the pistol much quicker. But every 
nation has its prejudices; the saber is ours. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. It ought not to be so; it is not suffi- 
ciently graceful. The rapier is more like what your na- 
tional weapon should be. The rapier is amongst swords 
what the mandoline is amongst instruments. 

Duca di Bastia (boios). Henceforth I will fight with 
the rapier. 

Comtesse de Riom. I hope you will not fight at all; it 
is very barbarous. 

Duca di Bastia. It is a little, but it is wholesome. If 
that friend whom Madame Vanscheldt spoke of 

Mrs. Vanscheldt, It was a she! 

Duca di Bastia, Ah! I might have supposed so. Some- 
one who has envied your toilets, or whose receptions I 
have neglected. Malice is always so busy; one wonders 
there are two people left on speaking terms with each 
other. 

Padre Francesco {approaching). Our mountain roses 
are very smiple things, but if their Excellencies would 
deign to accept them? 

Oomtesse de Riom, Oh, mon Reverend! how exquisite! 
How can I tliank you enough? Monsieur de Bastia, say 
something pretty to him for me. 

Mrs, Vanscheldt. Poor old man! And we order tea 
thousand for a ball, and never look at them. 

Uomtesse de Riom. How very kind! What sweet roses! 
I must really learn Italian to be able to talk to these de- 
lightful old people. 

Duca di Bastia. Let me have the honor to teach you, 
madame. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt, When Italians teach a pretty woman 
their language, they always begin with Dante. They get 
to the galeotto fu il lihro e chi lo scrisse, and there they 
stop. Tlie lesson never advances. 

Duca di Bastia. Perhaps it advances too quickly! 

Comtesse de Riom. We will begin with Silvio Pellico. 

Duca di Bastia. We will begin with what you like, 
provided we end in Armida's Gardens. 

Comtesse de Riom. Armida's Gardens? That is in 
Ariosto. 

Duca di Bastia. It is in Ariosto. But Ariosto found 



74: AT CAMALDOLl. 

it in Love. It is still there. {The Comtesse de Riom col- 
ors and plays with her roses.) 

Mrs. Vanscheldt {smiling). Did Ariosto ever come 
here — for liis lungs — I wonder? Do these dear old male 
goodies sell cigarettes, do you know? 

Duca di Bastia. I fear they are not yet at that height 
of civilization. They sell liqueurs into which I believe oil 
and honey enter in equal proportions. Here is one with 
a title fit for an ode of Meleager's or Ovid's, the Lagrime 
deV ahete. What can be more poetic? 

Mrs. Vanscheldt, I'll taste. It won't beat Delmonico's 
pick-me-ups. 

Duca di Bastia, Alas! what can the old world 

Mrs, Vanscheldt. Don't be hypocritical. You despise 
us utterly from the heiglit of all your twelve centuries 
of nobility. Tell us all about your twelve centuries; it is 
very interesting. I don't go back myself further than my 
own fcitlier. 

Duca di Bastia. You are laughing at me; that is very 
unkind. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Honor bright I'm not. I think it 
must be perfectly delightful to have an ancestry that is 
just a cours de Vhistoire in itself- There were Bastias 
in the time of Constantine, weren't there? Tell us all 
about it. We are in a mood to be educated. Is it true 
you were kings of Corsica once upon a time? « 

Duca di Bastia. Pray spare me. I will send you the 
volume B of Ingherami; I shall so at least not see you 
yawn. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. I shouldn't yawn; I think your Ital- 
ian genealogies as delightful as wonder-stories and as 
interesting as a lecture of Caro's. What shall we do 
with ourselves to-day? If you won't read us Inghe- 
rami 

Duca di Bastia. I will read you the ^'Decamerone " 
under the pines yonder. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Oh, but isn't that very shocking? 

Duca di Bastia. I will take care not to shock you. It 
will be Madame de Riom's first lesson in Italian. I assure 
you we are very little altered since the days of Boccaccio. 
The middle classes are changed, but I think our class and 
the, popolo are both very much what we were in the medio 
evo. Here and there we have put electric bells in our 



AT CAMALDOLI. 75 

villas, and bought a threshing-macliine for our fields, but 
even that is rare, and would liave been better let alone. 
Life in Italy is still a picture and an idyl, our old walled 
gardens and our loggie still hear the lute. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Let us go under the pines then, et 
va pour Boccaccio! 

Oomtesse de Riom, ^f the Duke do not translate it, I 
shall understand nothing. 

Duca di Bastia. I will translate it, and will remem- 
ber the Boston susceptibilities of Madame Vanscheldt. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. My Boston susceptibilities have had 
a good airing on the Boulevards; that produces a wonder- 
ful change in them. The starch comes out with quite as- 
tonishing rapidity when once one has eaten a beefsteak at 
Bignon's. 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis. You would not let anyone else say 
that, Mrs. Vanscheldt. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Why, of course not. One laughs at 
one's country and one abuses one's husband, but one 
don't let anybody else do either. 

Duca di Bastia. Happy country! Thrice happy hus- 
band! 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Don't you be impudent. 

Duca di Bastia. Impudent! I only sigh for a felicity 
that cannot be mine. 

Mrs. Vansclieldt. You might have married Elise Hicks. 

Dnca di Bastia. No one has any right to suy that I 
could. Mile. Hicks is about to marry a Pnnce Galitzin* 
there are tiiree liundred and thirty-five Princes Galitzin.- 
I do not know whether he is at the top of the list or the 
bottom. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. I believe you are regretting Elise. 
Well, let us get to Boccaccio. All / know about hirn is 
that stupid little operetta. I ought to have been learned, 
coming from the ^ hub of the universe,' but I'm not. 

Duca di Bastia. You are so many things so much 
more delightful. Boccaccio would have adored you, eS' 
peciaily when you wear that red cloak. 

Mrs. Vancsheldt. Adoration that depends on thft color 
of a cloak won't kill one with over-devotion, and I don't 
think you are as respectful as you might be, Duke. 

Duca di Bastia. Eespectful! I am neither twenty nor 



76 AT CAMALDOLI. 

sixty. Need a man be respectful to ladies between those 
ages? 

Madame de Saintange. Not if he wish to please. 

Mrs. VanscheldL How shocked Mr. Ellis looks! En- 
glishmen are always respectful; I believe they remain so 
even when they talk to a ballet-girL 

Duca di Bastia. They are born en froc et cravatte 
llanche. At the risk of shocking Monsieur Ellis again, I 
will tell you a story. It happened to me myself. Per- 
haps you will say it is too like Toto chez Tota to be true, 
nevertheless 

Mrs. VanscheldL I think we'll pass over it, Duke, for 
Mr. Ellis is blushing in anticipation. Fm half afraid to 
trust you with Boccaccio 

Duca di Bastia. I assure you . I will be penetrated 
with respect, though I agree with Madame de Saintange 
that it is an unlovely quality. You shall have a Decam- 
erone that might be read in Boston on a Sunday; can I 
say more? 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. I am afraid you have said a little 
too much. However, we will go under the pines and hear 
your worst. 

Duca di Bastia. There are listeners for whoso ears the 
type of the '^ Decamerone " would change of its own ac- 
cord into the type of the ^'^Imitatione Christi." 
- Mrs* Vanscheldt, You are speaking to me, but you 
are looking at Madame de Riom, She might perform that 
miracle in printer's type, I certainly shall not. Well, 
let lis go. These old men are wanting to be alone with 
their stills and herbs and flowers. What delicious old fel- 
lows they are — in their white flannel gowns and their broad 
flapping straw hats. What a pretty world it must have 
been when everybody dressed picturesquely! 

Duca di Bastia, And when monks were as many in 
the land as song-sparrows in the trees. Nothing *' comes " 
better, as artists say, in the Tuscan landscape than two of 
these white-frocked figures going up a grass path under 
the olives, or passing along a sunny road through the vine- 
shadows; and if the bells are ringing within hearing at 
the time, the thing is perfect. 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis, It is only a trivial and profane mind 
which can consider the monastic order — the curse of so 



AT CAMALDOLI. 77 

many centuries — as the mere ornament of the decorative 
scene, 

Duca di Bastia, Ah, dear Mr. Ellis, I am so sorry, but 
I am always trivial; I am pagan, too; yet, so near Alver- 
nia, do you think we should speak ill of a community 
that held S. Francesco? Trivial as my mind is, I do not 
feel inclined to do that. I dare say there are many monks 
great rog^ues, but still, when I see a monk I take off my 
hat to him, for, if he be nothing, or even worse than noth- 
ing in himself, he represents so much in the past that 
was holier than anything we shall ever see again, 

Mrs, Vanscheldi. That is a pretty feeling, and I shall 
not let Mr. Ellis dispute it with you. You have kept the 
soul of the Quattro Centisti, though you have eaten, like 
me, the Msqite of Bignon. But we shall never have 
Boccaccio read at this rate, and the sun will be going 
down if we don't make haste into the woods. 

[In the Woods.] 

MarcJiese delta Roccalda. Caro mio, you liave read re- 
markably well. To make Boccaccio decent and yet divert- 
ing is a task that might daunt any man; but where fail- 
ure was almost certain you have achieved success. 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis. The Duke did not wholly avoid 
some questionable suggestions, but in the main, for an 
impromptu translation, it has been well done, 

Mrs. Va7iscJieldt. Dear Mr. Ellis, to the pure all things 
are nasty; that's Scripture, and it's such a pity. I'm a 
naughty woman, and I can't for the life of me see what 
was left that w^as objectionable. 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis. There were suggestions 

Mrs. Vansclieldt. Oh, only suggestions. Well, you 
know, I must be very obtuse, I really didn't notice them. 
Perhaps a course of the petits tliedires has hardened my 
conscience and my tympanu«ra. 

Comtesse de Riom. How beautifully you have read, or, 
rather, improvised, Monsieur de BasLia; you have givea * 
ns a great pleasure. All that marvelous life of Old 
Tiorence seemed to live again. 

Duca di Bastia. I am happy, indeed, to have your 
praise. As I said before, we are not so very much changed 
^t heart or even in manners since those days. It is easy 



78 AT OAMALDOLI. 

to reproduce them iu fancy. It requires no talent — only 
memory. 

Cumiesse de Riom, Perhaps genius is only memory; I 
have heard it said. 

Duca di Bastia. Oh, do not give such a great word to 
my slight efforts. I am a very idle son of the soil, with 
a trick of rhyming and of improvising in which anyone 
of onr mountuin peasants would excel ten times better 
than L 

MarcJiese delta Roccalda. We might be holding one of ; 
those Courts of Love of which Italy saw so many in Boc- 
caccio's days. Those big dusky pines, those lovely ladies, 
Bastia's lute, the Countess's great peacock fan — it might 
be all up at Urbino iu Bembo's time, or at Ferrai'ain Lu- 
crezia's. 

Duca di Bastiao The lovely ladies certainly made 
heaven of Urbino and Ferrara then, as they do now at 
Camaldoli; but the pinevvoods you would have been puz- 
zled to find in either place. 

MarcJiese della Roccalda. You are hypercritical. 

Duca di Bastia. Nature created me so. When De 
Musset made an Andalouse in Barcelone, he spoilt his 
poem for me. 

Comtesse de Riom, The mistake does not prevent the 
poem thrilling like the song of a nightingale and the thrust 
of a dagger. 

Duca di Bastia. N"o; it has the passion of a lifetime 
and the moonlit nights of a whole summer of love in it. 
After all, his city is not Barcelona only, but anywhere 
wiiere heaven is found upon a human breast. 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis, What frightful waste of talent 
Alfred de M asset's! Perhaps if he had never met George 
Sund 

Duca di Bastia, Waste? I would sooner have written 

Rolla than have cut the Suez Canal. If he had never 

met George Sand — if Tasso had never met Leonora — if 

Dante had never known Beatrice — if Abelard had never 

^■let H61oise — Comtesse, love is not an accident, it is a 

^ destiny. 

/ ' Comtesse de Riom {loith a smile). You are very fond 

of talking about love. Is that Italian? 

Duca di Bastia. We never talk about anything else. 
Love has a much larger share in our lives than in those 



AT CAMALDOLi. 



79 



of your northern men; there never was but one northern 
who understood us, and that was Henri Beyle. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Didn^t he say that ail men are tyros 
in the art of love beside the Italian? 

Duca di Bastia {loitli emphasis). Because with us it 
is an art, exacting and imperious as an art, whicli absorbs 
our lieai'L and soul, our passions, our entire being; an art 
which we think is worthy to occupy our lifetime. 

Mrs, Vanscheldt, Ah, yes, just lilie a painter! His 
art is one and indivisible, it is only his subjects that 
change; he can't help painting a mill one day, and a tree 
the next, and a horse the next, and so on; it is always art. 
So with you, it is sometimes gray eyes, sometimes blue 
eyes, sometimes brown eyes, but it is always love. 

Duca di Bastia. Did you learn all of this, Madame, 
at Boston on a Sunday? 

Mrs. Vanscheldt, No, it is the result of my observa- 
tions since I came East, In our great country sir-ee, 
there's such an uncommon deal of marriage that love gets 
kind o' hustled. Men and w^omen too, down oar way, 
walk out so much together that they just lose flavor for 
each other, and feel like two tame 'possums sitting on a 
gum tree. Now don't say I can't talk Yankese! 

Mr. Wynne- Ellis. Do you really think, Mrs. Van- 
scheldt, thtit marriage is unappreciated in the States? 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Heavens, no; it's too much appre- 
•ciated. There's such a lot of it, it's like buying yams by 
the sack. If it was a little harder to do, and a little 
harder to undo, perhaps Americans would learn to make 
love. As it is, they can't, no more than they can say a 
clear monosyllable. You never met an American who 
didn't split the monosyllables, did you? 

Mr, Wynne-Ellis, I have observed what you mean. 
It is very extraordinary. Perhaps climatic influences on 
the trachea 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. I daresay {aside): Is it climatic in- 
fluences that produce the genus bore? 

Marchese delta Roccalda. How happy Madame Van- 
scheldt would make me if she woul-d only say one mono- 
syllable to me: ^^ tu "/ 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Fm more likely to say in my own 
Ternacular, ^^ goose"! 

Marchese delta Roccalda, That is what you call '^ chaff;" 



80 AT CAMALDOLI, 

we do not possess the equivalent in our language. It is- 
not even precisely the same thing as the Gallic badinage. 

Mrs. Vanscheldto No; it ain't half so delicate^.and it 
don't want any wit. 

Duca di Bastia, We have something like it in Palci 
and his compeers, and in our peasants, too, on a market 
day, or when they are in a merry mood anywhere. Oom- 
tesse, shall we go for a little walk before the sun sets? 
This brook that comes tumbling down amongst us seems 
to promise all sorts of delightful recompense to the advent- 
urous {they saunter away together), 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis {to Mrs, Vanscheldt), Is that the 
Madame de Kiom — the very rich one? 

Mrs. Vanscheldt, "Yes, I think so. A charming woman, 
so Bastia seems to say. 

Mr, Wynne- Ellis, Belgian, I believe? 

Mrs, Vanscheldt. Yes, they are big people in Belgium;; 
as big as they can be in that mouse of a country. 

Marchese della Roccalda, Madame de Eiom would re- 
mind us that the mouse has had the spirit of a lion ere 
now; and that it has come nearer to ourselves in art than 
any other country on the map of the world. Are not the 
De Eioms Brabant nobility? 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. I believe so; they are immensely 
rich. This one is the widow of Henri di Kiom; she is un- 
commonly handsome. 

Marchese della Roccalda, We might think so, perhaps,. 
if Madame Vanscheldt were not by. 

Mrs, Vanscheldt. Now, my dear Marchese, what rub- 
bish! I haven't a feature in my face! I've a little w^^o^s 
chiffonee crumpled up like a rag ball, with two sparks for 
eyes, and that's all. But you are so used here to regular 
profiles that you don't appreciate them; they are toiijours 
perdrix; you like a little ugly mobile gutta-percha face 
better, because it's new. 

Marchese della Roccalda. The mobile face is the only 
one of which one never tires. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. See if you'd say so if we were shut 
up opposite each other through a cold spell m Ottawa, or 
the sickly season down Florida way. 

Marchese della Roccalda. I am convinced that the ther- 
mometer would always stand permanently for me at 20^ Ee 



AT CAMALDOLI. 81 

.under those circumstances, and its sister instrument at 
"set fair." 

Mrs. VmiscJielcU. It's set fair with Bastia. 

Marcliese clella Roccalda. It's only the red dawn that 
precedes the stormy day. It is quite evident he means to 
marry lier! 

Mrs. Vansclieldt. Why don't they have chaises a por- 
teurs here? Who can climb who eats six times a day? 
Besides, the human's not meant for a climbing animal. 
He has no hooks io his toes. We'll sit still, and «wait till 
they come back. 

Marcliese della Roccalda {casting himself at her feet). 
Paradise! 

Mrs, Vanscheldt (looking ahout her). I only do hope 
there are no snakes. When you've seen a hooded come 
wriggling along, you don't love them any more, however 
fond you may be of the study of natural history. 

Marchese della Roccalda, We have no snakes in ,Tus- 
cany, only harmless chains of green and gold, that hang 
head foremost from the boughs, and look at us. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. You must have adders, anyway. 
They're an universal institution, like marriage. 

Marchese della Roccalda. When you say these things I 
cease for one moment to envy M. Vanscheldt. All the 
rest of my life is consumed in envy of liim. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. AYell, that aren't too civil, seeing 
there's no living man sees less of me! Here's a peasant: 
how miserable she looks. Perche piange ? What does 
she say? Does she talk High Dutch? 

Marchese della Roccalda. Mountain Italian; equally 
unintelligible. Her husband's in prison because he dared 
to ])hiut a cahbage or two on a bit of forest land, that is, 
of government land. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Poor soul! tell her to go and ask 
my maid to give her twenty francs. Guess you worry 
your poor too much, drives 'em all our side. Seems to 
me if the man 'd stole his cabbages you couldn't have 
done more to him. Is it true your hill people eat grass? 

Marchese della Roccalda. Saggina, a sort of seeding 
grass; yes, they do, poverini. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Here we grumble if the fish don't 
come up every day, and if the truffles run short now and 
then! Marquis, there's enough of buckwheat on God's 



82 AT CAMALDOLI. 

earth for every man to have his handful. How is it we've 
become so right on wicked that we stuff while they starve? 
It's not in nature. 

MarcJiese delta Boccalda. Oh, yes., pardon me, it is in 
nature. Look at monkeys, 

{Higher in the Woods.) 

Duca di Bastia. Will you not believe me? Did the 
devoti(m of a whole winter prove nothing? What can I 
do to induce you to take pity on me? 

Comtesse de Eiom. Dear Duca, you are well Jen own to 
be ? most desperate flirt. No woman in her senses ever 
take? your pretty speeches seriously. 

Duca di Bastia. Every man is a flirt until he loves 
sincerely. I have been most serious. It is now seven 
months since I saw you first; it was at a novena at St. 
Peter's; you were all in black. The next night I saw you 
at tlie Apollo; you wore a marvelous crimson dress, and 
you had some great red lilies. 

Comtesse de Riom. Red lilies! To be sure; they dye 
even the poor flowers nowadays. What a pity it is! Red 
is the only color that tells in a theater; it is the color of 
crowds. To impress the multitude soldiers should only 
wear red; when they are gray they have no moral effect. 

Duca di Bastia. In red, or in gray, or in black, you 
'* awe me through my eyes." Why will you not believe it? 

Comtesse de Riom. You are always saying those pretty 
things to women; you may even mean them at the mo- 
ment, but 

D^ica di Bastia. Do you think that a little thing would 
make me bury myself under these monastic pines? 

Comtesse de Riom, I thought it was for your lungs? 

Duca di Bastia, You never thought any such thing. 
When you left Rome at Easter, you said you should come 
to this religious solitude, and therefore 

Comtesse de Riom, This religious solitude is profaned 
by tlie click of Mrs. Vanscheldt's roulette ball, and re- 
sembles the big world as a lizard resembles a crocodile. 
Wliere can one go nowadays tluit one is not pursued by the 
cigarette smoke of *^ society"? 

Duca di Bastia. You cannot, because society goes 
where you go. 



AT CAMALDOLI. 83 

Comtesse de Riom, Oh dear no! I am a very insigni- 
ficant person. If you really wish to know, I have come 
to Camaldoli because it is — cheap! 

Duca di Bastia. You are pleased to jest. 

ComtessG de Riom, I was never more serious. I am 
much more serious than you were iust now. My dear 
Duke, do not let us beat about the bush. You think I 
am the widow of Henri de Riom, who was very rich. I 
am the widow of Otto, the younger brother, who had only 
a younger brother's portion, and ran through that in two 
years. 

Buca di Bastia, But — but — surely ■ 

Comtesse de Riom. You mean that I look as if I had a 
hundred thousand francs a year to spend on my gowns? 
Tnat is the way of all of us in our world. We had a very 
pleasant winter in Rome. I should be sorry if it wore to 
leave the slightest cloud of painful remembrance with 
you. {He is silent. She loolcs at Mm and smiles.) 

Comtesse de Riom, I am so often supposed to be my 
sister-in-law, Marthede Roim, Henry's widow. She never 
leaves her chateau, and never spends a sou that she can 
help, just because she has millions. I have fancied once 
or twice that you were misled into thinking me the owner 
of these millions. Oh, I do not bear you the slightest 
grudo^e. Why should I bear you any? It has been all my 
own fault for letting Worth dress me too well. Really I 
have next to no money at all. My own people are poor 
noblesse, and. Otto once dead, the de Rioms iiave nothing 
to do with me. Madame de Sain tan ge lives with me par 
respect des convenances, but she pays everything for her- 
self. Now tiiat I have been quite frank with yon my con- 
science is clear. I know marriage in Italy is only a ques- 
tion of cliiffres. " I have so much: how much have you?" 
That is all that Hymen inquires. Love you keep between 
the leaves of Boccaccio; or — where was it you said, that 
Ariosto found it? 

Buca di Bastia [very pale). Madame 

Comtesse de Riom. How white you look! Do not be 
afraid; I do not mean to hold you to your pretty speeches. 
If I did, you could justly retort that they are only for 
Armida's Garden. I understand it all quite well; you 
have a great name and a delightful wit, but you are very 
poor; you see in me a woman who does not displease your 



84 AT CAMALDOLI. 

taste, and in whom, by a fatality of misunderstanding, 
you believe you meet one who has the riches and the es- 
tates that you are obliged to seek in marriage. As soon 
as you speak seriously to me I tell you the facts as they 
are. I am quite poor, too; horribly poor, for a woman 
who likes luxury, and must go to courts and embassies. 
Our toilets mean nothing except that we spend all we 
do possess on them. I have some fine old jewels; they 
are all. I had a tiny dot, which is what I nave to live on 
now. I married poor Otto when I was sixteen; I cared 
very little about him. I was in love with love, as girls 
are. The man was but a peg on which to hang a dream- 
coat of many colors. He gambled, and died very early. 
I am five-and-twenty years old, and I feel a hundred. 
Don't waste your time thinking about me. Go away 
from the monastic solitude and enjoy yourself. There is 
nothing more to be said. I am not what you believed me. 
You will put me out of your bead from this moment, and 
take nothing worse away from Oamaldoli than a bottle of 
the lagrime cVaiete. You will shed no tears of your own, 

Duca di Bastia (hitterly). Nor can I hope for any 
from you! 

Comtesse de Riom, Oh, that would be really too much 
to expect. Eemember how many women, to be Duchessa 
di Bastia — and your title is so old that it is really attract- 
ive — would have only let you find out the truth so late 
that you could scarcely in honor have drawn back; or, if 
you had drawn back, my brother Louis, who is always 
enchanted to kill anybody, would have tried the saber en- 
counter with you which Madame Vanscheldt thinks so 
ugly. I might have done you a very great deal of harm, 
and I refrain from doing you any. You cannot reasonably 
expect me to weep for you as well, can you? 

Duca di Bastia. You have never deigned to believe in 
what I expressed. 

Comtesse de Riom, Yes, I have done in a measure. I 
see that I am agreeable to your taste, that you approve of 
me, that you find pleasure in talking to me." Those things 
are never assumed, or, when they are, one at once detects 
the assumption; but then you saw me painted on a golden 
back-ground, like the Quattrocentisti Saints. When you 
realize that I am that much-to-be-pitied creation of modern 
life, a well-born woman accustomed to all kinds of self- 



AT CAMALDOLI. 85 

indulgence and elegances, with a certain rank to keep up, 
and a mere pittance to do it on, which all goes to the pock- 
ets of the Paris tailors, you will view me with quite differ- 
ent eyes. Take away the golden ground, the suint is no 
saint, but a mere commonplace woman, with no nimbus 
at all. (He is silent.) 

Comtesse cle Riom. Haven't you even one compliment 
left with which to contradict me? You look terribly 
shocked, considering that there is no real harm done. If 
you keep your own counsel no one will be the wiser. They 
iill know that the Duca di Bastia is a great flirt. They 
will not be surprised that you grew tired of flirting with 
anybody as grave as I am. Really the wonder is that you 
have been so coiistant for six months, and that you have 
endured Camaldoli for six days, even with the support of 
the liqueurs. 

Duca di Bastia. You are very mirthful. I suppose I ' 
ought to rejoice that I amuse you. 

Comtesse cle Riom, It is very amusing that you should 
have taken me for Madame Marthe. She is everything 
that I am not; small, dark, prim, very religious, full of 
economies. Because she could spend half a million of 
francs with Worth any year, she has all the year round 
a camelot gown that costs fifty centimes. I do not know 
why she saves so much; she has no children, and her 
money would go if she died to some distant relations. To , 
be sure she may marry; wiiy don't you go and marVy her? 
She is not handsome certainly, but there is no doubt about 
her fortune; she has rentes, actions, valeurs of all kinds 
in all the banks of Belgium and in the banks of France 
too. I will give you a letter of introduction to her. The - 
chateau is near Malines, it is called Qaincampoix: it is all 
pignons et tourelles, with stonework like old Flanders lace; 
it IS really worth seeing. It has fine woods too, and in Henri 
and Otto's time the shooting was good. You might re- 
vive its glories; there is a peculiar breed of hounds very, 
famous here. . Well, you are not excited? I should have 
thought you would have been already half-way down the 
hill. 

Duca di Bastia {bitterly). It is evident, madame, that 
you deem the offer of my hand a diverting comedy. It 
is true my hand is emptv! 

Comtesse de Riom. Here is Madame Vanscheldt, who 



86 AT CAMALDOLI. 

lias tired of sitting still. To her all life is a comedy* 
Wluit a delightful temperament that. It is a perpetual 
amulet against ennui. 

Mrs. Vansclieldt {to Mr. Wymie-MUs). How glnm 
that gtiy Duca looks. You bet she's refused him. I 
didn't think sIjO would. But to be sure she's all the dol- 
lars. I don't think he's a rich man himself; if he were 
driven to say what he lives on 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis. The Italian nobles are impoverished 
by the inordinate taxation, and the Duca di Bastia inher- 
ited embarrassed estates; his way of life is not calculated 
to disentangle his difficulties. 

Mrs. VanscJieldt, Well, his way of life would be smooth 
for ever if Madame de Riom would say yes, but he don't 
look as if she had said yes. Suppose she thinks he's after 
her money. 

Madame de Saintange {overhearing, loith a smile)^ 
Marsrot is not suspicious. 

Mrs. Vansclieldt. She mayn't be, but when one's got 
a pot of money one can't help feeling like a sugar cask in, 
a street. Do tell me now, you who are her intimate 
friend, will she marry iiim? 

Madame de Saintange. I am not in her confidence. 

Mrs. Vansclieldt. Then you may be sure she won't,, 
for if she had meant to do it she couldn't have helped tell- 
ing you. 

Madame de Saintange. You think we always boast of 
our good actions? 

\In the Comtesse de Riom^s room. ] 

Madame de Saintange. What have you done to the 
Duca di Bastia? He did not dine to-night. 

Comtesse de Riom. • He is probably gone to take the 
train at Popp.i. My dear friend, he mistook me for Ma- 
dame Mar the. 

Madame de Saintange. What do you mean? 

Comtesse de Riom. Precisely what I say. He took me 
to be the widow of Henri, whose millions would have been 
very serviceable to him. So many people have always con- 
fused me with Marthe. What can I do? I cannot wear a 
placard on the back of my gown proclaiming that I am 
the widow of Otto who left me sans le sou 9 



AT CAMALDOLI. 87 

Madame de Saintange. Did the Duke ask you if you 
yfevQ Martbe? 

Cointesse de Riom. Of course not; be took it for 
granted. lie asked me to marry him; I replied that he 
was under an iliasion, tliat I was not Marthe, and had not 
millions, that I had in fact scarcely enough to pay for my 
gowns. 

Madame de Saintange. I do not think you were called 
on to explain that unasked. 

Comtesse de Riom. ■ Oh!-h-h! 

Madame de Sai?itange. I do not really. He is cer- 
tainly in love with you, even if he did make that error; 
that was all you had to do with; you should have accepted 
him, since you like him, the rest would have revealed itself 
in time. 

Comtesse de Riom, When in honor he could not have 
drawn back! Philosophers are right; women have no 
conscience. 

Madame de Saintange, If he had inquired point blank 
if you v/ere Marthe, you must have answered that you 
were not, but as no doubt he only made love to you 

Comtesse de Riom, Because he imagined that I pos- 
sessed a large fortune which would have restored his own. 
Certainly, I admit that he — he — perhaps likes me a little, 
one can never tell; Italians are such exquisite actors that 
they cheat themselves into belief in their own fictions, 
but he would never have allowed himself to say so if he 
liad not been misled by some impression (current in Rome, 
I know not how) that I was the rich Comtesse de Riom. 
All I had to do was to undeceive him; the rest will come 
of itself. When he is fairly away from Camaldoli he will 
forget that there exists an extravagant woman who has 
gowns and old jewels that nobody ought to have under 
half a million of francs a year. He has been near a great 
danger. Whenever he remembers it, if he do remember 
it, he will feel a little catch of his breath, as a man does 
when he recalls how he has been once within a moment of 
an avalanche's falling or within an inch of a runaway c«:- 
press-train. \_She turns away and laughs a little; the 
tears are in her eyes.} 

Madame de Saintange. Ciiere Margot! if he liave es- 
caped an avalanche you have not altogether escaped a 
slight that wounds you. lam certain you care for this 



88 AT CAMALDOLI. 

Diica di Bastia; though you are so generous and so lenient 
toward him, you suffer something, much more than he 
merits to have suffered for him. 

Comtesse de Riom. Pray do not make him such a hero, 
or raise me into a martyr; we are two yery useless gens du 
mo7ide, who if we had had Marthe's million might per- 
haps have gone through life in a very fair amity together, 
but as we have not, shall be quite content to go our several 
ways apart. He will marry some heiress, and I — I dare- 
say I shall marry, too, some rich old man, some day when 
Worth^s account has more zeros to it than usual. What 
is there to regret? I don't know Italian, and I have had 
Boccaccio charmingly translated to me; that is a solid 
gain. 

Madame de Saintange. Your jests do not deceive me. 
You care very much for Bastia; he is the only man who 
has ever had power to interest you. You will never marry 
for a fortune, because you have refused so many alliances 
already which would have tempted you if you had been 
to be bought. This Italian Duke is poor, but Italian pov- 
erty is graceful. It lies on a marble stej3 in the sun and 
smiles; it is not appalling. And as it is — but you so un- 
happy! 

Comtesse de Riom. One is always unhappy when one's 
vanity has been wounded. My reason of course accepts 
the fact that in view of one's not being Marthe, a man 
can do only his best to forget one as soon as may be; but 
at the same time one cannot be proud of that, and I have- 
always liked to be proud. 

Madame de Saintange. Oh, why did you tell him? 

Comtesse de Riom. For shame, Pauline! You would 
have done the same had you been in my place. Do not 
belie yourself; we are weak creatures perhaps, but we are 
not quite base. 

Madame de Saintange. But you care for liim! 

Comtesse de Riom. Perhaps I could have done. There! 
it is not worth while to think of any possibilities of that 
sort. I will sell my jewels which so fatally lead people io 
imagine that I must be a rich woman. When you are 
poor you have no business to wear diamonds; there ought 
to be sumptuary laws about it. Do you know when I 
am a few years older I think I shall go into one of those 
delightful Flemish Beguinages of ours; I have often 



AT CAMALDOLI. 89 

thought them charming; their cloisters, their stone courts, 
their little quiet gardens, their beautiful iron-work gates. 
One would have a gray flannel gown; one would not want 
Worth^s advice about that. I wonder what it would feel 
like; all the world shut out and nothing left but recollec- 
tion. They look peaceful enough, these women; so do 
these old men here. Do they really grow contented? Is 
it best after all for human life to become a stone that 
is never turned, and feels neither the sun nor the rain? 

[Her maid enters zvith a 'bouquet: Madame la Comtesse, 

M. le Due She takes the fioivers; her hand tremiles.J 

The Duca di Bastia! 

Madame de Saintange, The Duca di Bastia? He has 
not gone to Poppi? 

Comtesse de Riom. These flowers did not grow at Oamal- 
doli! He must have ordered them whilst he was still 
under the impression that he knew the Comtesse Marthe! 
They have evidently come from Florence. 

Madame de Saintange. Wherever they came from, 
surely, since he has sent them now 

Comtesse de Riom, Do not suggest such an idea to me; 
I am convinced it is wholly groundless. 

Madame de Saintange. Well, flowers have been the 
messengers of love ever since the world began, in the days 
DfLilith. 

Comtesse de Riom. In the days of Lilith the world was 
very easy to live in; in ours it is very difficult, espe- 
cially if you are dans le train and have a certain dignity 
of name to keep up, and little with which to do so. The 
Duke and I are back in that position; the bouquet comes 
to say adieu; that is all. 

Madame de Saintange. They are nearly all orchids. 
Do orchids mean farewell or separation? 

Comtesse de Riom. I think orchids mean nothing; they 
come from the West, Lilith did not know them. 

Madame de Saintange. You are very perverse. 

Comtesse de Riom. People always find us most so when 
"we are most reasonable. 

Madame de Saintange. Will you not come down stairs? 
They will miss y(Xi, and will notice that your absence coin- 
cides with Bastia's. 

Comtesse de Riom. I have a headache, and I do not 



90 AT CAMALDOLl. 

care to hear people screaming at Poker, or see them grow- 
ing greedy at Roulette. 

Madame cle Saintange. We can go out of doors. 

Comtesse de Riom, Do you go; I will come later. 

Madame de Saintange. Why will you not admit that 
you care for him? 

Comtesse de Riom. I will admit if you like that my 
yanity has been wounded, also that the Duca di Bastia is 
a charming companion. But I am not a pensionnaire to 
weep for a lost lover, and I perfectly understand that 
though he might adore me he would be obliged to put me 
out of his thoughts. The thing for which I reproach my- 
self is that I did not take some means to let him know 
earlier that I was as poor as he is. There was nothing to 
tell him in Rome, when one stays at an embassy and goes 
everywhere, that one is as poor as a church mouse. 

Madame de Saintange. I do not see why you should so 
reproach yourself. If he had inquired he would have 
learned. 

Comtesse de Riom. I am sure he would have never 
asked. He is too true a gentleman to speak to other per- 
sons of any woman that he regarded with any sort of 
^friendship. 

Madame de Saintange. You think very well of him. 

Comtesse de Riom. I think he is a gentleman. 

Madame de Saintange. Well, considering he comes 
from the Byzantine emperors, he ought at least to be that. 

Comtesse de Riom. It does not follow. I have known 
a descendant of great kings take the change for a franc 
from a cabman after a course. 

Madame de Saintange. Well, that is better than squan- 
dering the money of a nation. 

Comtesse de Riom. Perhaps; but as there are some 
vices that are generous, so there are some virtues that are 
mean. ,, 

Madame de Saintange. It is very mean, though it may 
be very prudent, to adore a woman under the impression 
that she has millions, and to desert her because the mill- 
ions are not there. 

Comtesse de Riom. My dear friend, 3^ou speak as if I 
were Hetty Sorel or Lescaut! The Duca di Bastia owes 
no sort of allegiance to me. 



AT CAMALDOLI. 91 

Madame de Saintange, He has been your shadow for 
six months. 

Comtesse de Riom. He has wasted six months then. 
He has hurt no one by doing that except himself. Do you 
not think we have talked enough about him? Pray go 
down; I will follow. It is ten o'clock; Poker must be 
now at its height. There is a pretty Jewess who lets her- 
self be plundered that she may get spoken to. 

Madame de Saintange. Very un- Semi tic. 

Comtesse de Riom. Not so very; look what la grande 
Jniverie wastes on entertaining the fashionable Cliristians 
in all the capitals of the world. '' Rob me. bnt visit me," 
they say to society. Pray do go down, my dear. If 1 be 
not too lazy I will come. 

Madame de Saintange. Lazy! you are unhappy. What 
a pity it all is! I will leave you if you really wish it. 

{She goes; the Comtesse de Riom takes uja the bouquet 
and looks at it tuitli a sigh .) 

Com,tesse de Riom. Why did he send it? What is the 
use? 

(In the Refectory,) 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Is the Duke really gone? What a 
pity! Let us sign a siqyplicaio Madame de Eiom, to ask 
her to recall him. There is nobody half so delightful. 

Marchese della Roccalda. You make me feel homicidal 
toward my oldest friend. I can only hope that if I were 
also absent you would praise me as amiably. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. You must deserve it first. Has she 
really refused him? Do tell us. 

Marchese della Roccalda. I cannot imagine Bastia en- 
during that degradation; but everything is possible at the 
hands of woman. But do we really know that he offered 
himself? Our lively imaginations have built up a romance 
on the simple fact that we found them alone under some 
pine trees, and thought he looked more serious than usual. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. And he disapj^ears, he don't even 
come to dinner; she keeps her own room, her maid is seen 
carrying a magniGcent bouquet, and her bosom friend 
Madame Saintange is as cross as two sticks in the salon. 

Marchese della Pi,occalda. Which would argue that if 
Madame de Eiom has been cruel she has at least felt re- 



92 AT CAMALDOLI. 

Mr, Wynne- Ellis {enters with an open letter^, I have 
some curious intelligence, dear Mrs. Vanscheldt, which I 
am sure will interest you. I had an impression — a mere 
impression — that the charming lady we have with us here 
was not the rich Madame de Eiom; that she was, in fact, 
the widow of the younger brother, who was a great game- 
ster and died very early. I wrote to a friend of mine in 
Brussels, and I find my impression was correct; my im- 
pressions are usually correct. So I think we may conclude 
that the departure of the Duca di Bastia is — well — let us 
say, a prudential piece of diplomacy. Perhaps he had a 
friend in Brussels too! 

Mrs. Yanscheldt. Dear me, Mr. Ellis, how kind of you I 
Have you any friend in New York, too, that you've written 
to about me? I do assure you our pile's sound. We made 
it about five years ago, sending tinned clams to Europe. 
ISTobody 'd thought of tinning clams till we did. {Aside 
to Roccalda): He'll go and tell that in London and Paris* 

Marchese delta Roccalda. Do you mean, Mr. Ellis, 
that this beautiful Madame de Riom, who has the jewels 
of an empress, is sans le sou 9 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis. Well, as the world looks at such 
things, she is. She had a slender dower, her people were 
the Oomtes d'Evian of Brabant, very poor people; that is 
all she has now to live on, and I imagine her gowns 

Marchese delta Roccalda. Then Bastia must have 
learned it somehow or other in time? 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Probably she told him. My dear 
Marchese, a woman born a d'Evian, who wedded a de 
Eiom, isn't an adventuress to marry a man on false pre- 
tenses I 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis. Any way he has evidently thought 
prudence tiie better part of valor and has retreated in time. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Then he is a white-livered curl 
When he has been faisant la cour the whole winter and 
spring, when he is as much in love as if he were eight- 
een 

Marchese delta Roccalda. What can he do? He has 
hardly anything of his own. A very picturesque, utterly 
unprofitable, estate in Calabria drags on him like a can- 
non-ball, because he will not sell and cannot improve it. 
He is like us all; he is a man of tiie world, with all the 
ways of the world, and the extravagance of it. She has 



AT CAMALDOLI. 93 

the same. They may be lovers if they like; it is impossi- 
ble they should marry. How can we all have taken for 
granted that she was the rich veuve de Kiom! There is a 
rich one? 

Mr. Wynne- Ellis. Oh yes, there is a rich one. Mon- 
sieur di Bastia should go and see her. I believe she never 
leaves a chateau of hers called Quincampoix, but she is 
worth millions; an ugly little woman, but he need not look 
at her; with his lamentable principles his wife will natu- 
rally be the woman he looks at least. 

Mrs. Vanscheldt. Well, I'm sorry. Madame de Eiom 
hasn't been particularly civil to me, and she has a chill 
sort of manner with her, but she is wonderfully handsome 
and I like her, and I wish she'd got the millions, and I 
think di Bastia isn't much of a man for running away like 
that. We should call it real mean our side. 

Mr. Wynne-Ellis. He has certainly gone. 

Marchese della Roccalda. What else could he do? 

Mrs. Vanscheldt, Well, he don't reward the woman 
much if she were honorable enough to tell him herself. 
I wonder if she did, or if be found it out. Madame de 
Saintange looked as black as thunder last night. Well, 
men are poor creatures. 

{In the Monies' garden the next morning. ) 

Comtesse de Riom. What a charm there is in old mo- 
nastic gardens; in all Italian gardens indeed. In the datura 
growing with the black cabbage, in the clematis climbing 
beside the beanstalk; it is all so rough and simple and en- 
tangled and luxuriant, and yet it might all have sprung 
up because the feet of a nymph had passed by! I think 
I should like to be one of those song-sparrows, flying all 
day amongst these green silences. Ah, Padre Francesco! 
What beautiful roses again! You are always so kind. Mi 
rincresce di non capire — I have learned that one phrase of 
regret. 

Padre Francesco. La Signora Oontessa deve imparare 
la nostra lingua toscana; e delta suite belle labbra. 

Comtesse de Eiom (to herself). How I wish I could talk 
to him. I would ask him the secret of his content. They 
always say it is the privilege of philosophers, but surely it 
is rather the privilege of ignorance. It must be easier to 
be content in Italy than elsewhere. There is art in the 



94 AT CAMALDOLI. 

air, and there is joy in the light. If one could only live 
without that silly great world which is so little, which is 
always making us spend so much more than we ought, and 
squander our time in follies we despise, and put away our 
gowns unworn because we have been out in them three 
times. Oh, the intolerable nonsense of it all! And yet it 
is like any other habi^., it becomes a chain; we wear the 
chain till it grows into a very part of us. If one were 
quite happy, I think one could be content with veiy little 
wealth and nothingof the world, but then nobody is happy; 
the world is of such use to us just because it make? us for- 
get that. I would go to Scheveningen or Blankenbergiie 
now to get out of myself, only all the people here would be 
sure to say that I went away because he liad gone. 

l^Duca di Bastia enters the garden; he bows in silence. 

Comtesse de Riom (m surprise, with a forced smile). 
Are you here still, Monsieur di Bastia? I thought you 
went to Florence last night. Do you want that note of 
introduction to my sister-in-law? I will go in-doors and 
write it. 

Duca di Bastia, Pardon me; did you receive my bou- 
quet? 

Comtesse de Riom, Some gorgeous orchids? yes. You 
had ordered them for Marthe, I am sure. However, they 
were not wasted on me, for I am very fond of flowers, and 
I painted one of them on a china plate as soon as the sun 
was up; one gets such good habits in the country. 

Duca di Bastia. Did it tell you nothing? 

Comtesse de Riom. I thought it told me that you had 
gone to Florence, but it seems I was mistaken since you 
are still here. My sister-in-law 

Duca di Bastia. Madame, your sister-in-law is, I am 
sure, everytiiing that is most estimable in woman, but I 
confess that she does not interest me; let us leave her in 
peace at Qiiincampoix. I have come here to speak of a 
person much less worthy, but who does interest me much 
more — myself. You were very cruel to me yesterday 

Comtesse de Riom. On the contrary, I was most kind. 
I saved you from the consequences of your own unconsid- 
ered impulses, and from the results of a mistake w^hich 
might have been to you most disastrous, had you been 
taken at your word. 

Duca di Bastia. You were very cruel. You gave me 



AT CAMALDOLI. 95 

a douclie d^eau froide that it still ices my blood to remem- 
ber. Now I will not pretend to be better than I am. I 
did^ I confess, understand in Eome that yon were that 
Comtesse de Riom who possesses one of the largest fort- 
unes in Belgium and is 

Comtesse de Riom {loitli irritation). My sister-in-law! 
I know. I saw your error, and rectified it as soon as I 
saw it. There is no more to be said. You owe me no 
apologies. 

Duca di Bastia. Pray listen! lam one of those un- 
happy people who have a great rank and yet are very poor. 
There are many like me in Italy. Fortune is not indiffer- 
ent to me; no man in my position could declare honestly 
that it was so. But you were in error wlien you said that 
marriage with us was only 'd question de cldffres, .We are 
not so base as that. I sent you my orchids that they mi.oht 
tell you so. They seem to have spoken in vain, and yet 
what I meant them to say is very simple. It is this — I 
love you ! 

Comtesse de Riom. Why do you repeat it? It is of no 
use. I thought you understood yesterday that I am no 
richer than yourself. You certainly appeared startled out 
of all illusion. 

Duca di Bastia {impatiently). Cannot you forgive me 
a few moments of disappointment and astonishment? I 
am aware that it was unromantic to show either. I ought 
to have been so indifferent to all save yourself that I should 
have been scarcely sensible of what you told me. But you 
did aot tell it mercifully. You threw your facts and sar- 
casms pellmell in my face with so rude a hand that I was 
stunned by them for the instant. You attributed mercen- 
ary motives to me so unhesitatingly, and made such a jest 
of my declaration, that you unmanned me; I was discon- 
certed and defenseless. La nuit porte conseil. I went 
over the hills to Alvernia; though 1 am no saint, there is 
a sort of holy influence in such a place — it soothes one at the 
least. I do not know whether you will laugh again, or again 
despise me, but T came back to say to you, if you would 
not be afraid of the future I should not. I could get an 
embassy, they have often offered me one; or we could lead 
an idyllic life all by ourselves on my old estates in palabria 
— it is so Greek there still! We should be poor certainly^ 
for I have very little, but if you were not afraid 



96 AT CAMALDOLI. 

Comtesse de Riom {growing pale). My dear Dnke! you 
are dreaming. You have been asleep at Alvernia and had 
visions. You would not say these things if you were 
really awake. 

Duca di Bastict. I am entirely awake, and was never 
in my life more serious. You should believe me, for I do 
not attempt to disguise the truth from you. I thought 
you a rich woman, but do not raise that mistake into a 
crime. I love you; 1 love you for your beauty, for your 
grace, for your charm, for your frankness — for your very 
faults; I love you with the love that makes a man willing 
to give his life. We are both gens du monde, as you said, 
but I think we are both something more. Let us try and 
make a fate for ourselves which shall laugh at the world, 
or let us conquer the world together, which you prefer. 

Comtesse de Riom {ivith emotion). You had better go 
to Quincnmpoix! It would be wiser. 

Duca di Bastia, I might have been wise in that way 
very often, and I have always refused to do so. When 
they told me you had millions I should never have looked 
at you if I had not seen in you what I could love. I have 
nothing on earth save an old name, an empty palace, and 
a few square miles of classic soil that is as Greek still as 
any idyl of Theocritus; they are all I have, but I offer 
them to you. Will you take them, or will you ridicule 
them? 

Comtesse de Riom {in a, low voice) . If ever you repent, 
do not reproach me! I have been unhappy— yes, I do not 
mind confessing it all now, — but I fear we are going to 
be very unwise! 

Duca di Bastia {hisses lier liand). There is only one 
wisdom on earth; it is to love. 

Comtesse de Riom, Take care! you will shock Padre 
Francesco! 

Mrs. Vansclieldt {enters). What! are you come back, 
Duke? I thought you were gone for ever and ever? Will 
you read us some more tales of Boccaccio? 

Duca di Bastia. I feel more inclined for Petrarca to- 
day. But I will read anything you like, even all you 
ladies' fortunes if you desire me. 

Mrs, Vansclieldt {loitli a smile), I guess you have 
already told Madame de Riom's! 



IN PITTI. 

A SCENE. 

CFounded on Fact.) 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Sib Oscar Beresfokd, An English Gentleman. 
Dorothy Claremont, A Ta'pe^try Fainter. 

,ScE]srE: The Sale degli Arazzi in Palazzo PittL 

Time: An April morning: twelve d'doch. 

■Sir Oscar Beresford, Mind you let me out at one. 

Custodian. Al tocco — al tocco ! — non diiMti, signore! 

Sir Oscar. Why on earth do you lock one in? 

Custodian {shrugs his shoulder), M-a-h! 

Sir Oscar^ Of course I know you only obey orders; but 
it is an utterly idiotic regulation, and devilish uncompli- 
mentary to one's appearance. 

Custo€lian {shrugs, and loivs, and smiles). M-a-h! 

Sir Oscar. Suppose one fell ill? — had a fit? It is aw- 
fully stupid this lock and key business. You know very 
well on€ couldn't get an order to paint here, unless one 
were pretty honest. 

Custodian (shrugs, smiles, spreads out his hands). 
M-a-h! 

Sir Oscar, Well, if it must be, it must be. Thanks; 
jou may go. 



[CusTODiA.:^" retires and lochs the door on the i 
his steps die away in the distance. Sir Oscar goes 
to open a vnndoio. 

Dorothy Claremont {seated painting luith her laclc to 
him, loohs around, and speaJcs). You must not do that; 
they vvili turn you out. 

4. (97) 



98 IN PITTI 

Sir Oscar, Why? . ^ ^ . ^^ t,t 

Dorothy. Why must the windows be shut? :No one 
knows, except that Italy just now ^s/n love with red 
tape, and ties up her tiniest parcels with it. She thinks 
it an emblem of freedom. . 

Sir Oscar. But. it is such a warm morning, and by 
noon it will be terrible. ,;, . 

Dorothy, You are a stranger, I see, or^ you would not 
expect such simple reasons to have any weight. 

Sir Oscar. And you really mean the windows are never 

^^^Dorothy. l^ever. At least not by such profane hands 
as ours. Besides, Italians never see the necessity for open 
windows. In winter they would let in the wind; m sum- 
mer they would let in the sun. Such a trifle as air does 
not count. 

Sir Oscar. Good heavens! 

Dorothy. Would you kindly stand a little aside.'' You 
take off the light. 

Sir Oscar. A thousand pardons! Excuse me, you are 
copving this tapestry? . ^ xi 4? ^ 

Dorothy. This sofa. I have an order for the sofa and 
all the cliairs. , i t-. 

Sir Oscar {aside). An order! She looks like a prin- 
cess out in a cotton frock for a freak. {Aloud.) How 
much that painted imitation tapestry is the fashion, isn t 
it? It must be a great bore to do, though; at least, 1 
should think so. Mvself, I hate copying. -^ , . .^ 

Dorothy {coldlv). Probably you do not need to do it. 
Sir Oscar. Oh yes, indeed— at least— no, I do not 
need to do it— but I want to have rooms just like these 
built down at mv place in Dorsetshire; and as I can draw 
a little, I thought I would design their decorations and 
take the scale of their proportions myself. Don t you 
think it better to do things oneself as far as one can:* 
Dorothy {briefy). No doubt. 

Sir Oscar Uhinhs). How chilly she is all m a moment. 
I dare sav she is vexing herself about having talked so 
familiarly with me. What a pretty girl it is! and all that 
bright short hair of her own is charming. She is copying 
that sofa as if her life depended on it. Perhaps her bread 
does depend on it, poor child! I will go into the next 
room and take my measurements. When I come back she 



liq- PITTI. 99 

may have thawed again. Who on earth can her people be 
that let her come out and be locked up all alone? I am 
sure she is English. No other than an English girl would 
dare be all alone with the face of Venus on her shoulders. 
There is something absurdly wrong, now, in a pretty child 
like that having to paint linen for her bread, whilst here 
;am I, who could very well earn my own living if I were 
pushed to it, bothered with some land and more money 
than I know what to do with. I must say Fate is a very 
silly person; she always gorges her fat chickens and starves 
her lean ones. ( Goes into the next room and remains there 
ten minutes; then returns.) This is the finest room, don't 
jou think? 

Dorothy {coldly). By no means. There are others far 
finer. Take the Sala dei Stucchi. 

Sir Oscar. Oh yes; but that is not what I want. It 
is superb; but all that snow-white immensity would not 
suit a dusky English country-house. These carvings, 
these somber tapestries, this solemn gold, will suit it down 
to the ground. Do you — do you — know England at all? 
I think I cannot be mistaken in claiming you as a coun- 
trywoman? 

Dorothy {coldly). Yes; I am English. 

Sir Oscar. But you live in Italy? 

Dorothy, I live in Italy. 

Sir Oscar {to himself), I am sure she thinks me a con- 
foundedly impudent fellow. May not one talk in these 
old galleries? Art surely is a very good chaperon. She has 
got shy all in a second. Did I say anything insolent? 
Surely not. I had better sketch a little, perhaps, or she 
will think I cannot. (For twenty minutes measures pro- 
portions and draivs outlines; stealthily glances from time 
to time at the tapestry painter.) How steady she is over 
that linen and her bottles of dyes! She never raises her 
head. How well-shaped it is, and all those loose boyish 
€urls are charming. I should say she would be tall if 
she stood up. How can I get her to talk? How very 
thoughtful of them when they lock one in to give one 
such consolation! (Aloud.) Pardon me, I think the sun 
•is touching your work. I will move the shutter a little. 
{Moves it; she does not speak.) Isn't that better? It 
grows excruciatingly warm; and to think those duffers 
keep the windows shut! (She does not ansiuer; he walks 



100 IK PITTI. 

about and passes heliind her.) How very beautiful all 
this Gobelin is! What a charming landscape this upon 
your sofa! — a perfect picture in itself. 

Dorothy. It is not in very good taste on a sofa. 

Sir Oscar, Oh, you are hypercritical! You are right, 
of course, aesthetically. One ought not to lean one's 
shoulders against a seashore, a sky, and a cart, 

Dorothy {coldly). There are the Dolce pictures and 
much fine furniture in the other rooms of this suite. 

Sir Oscar. I am afraid I bother you by drawing here? 
You want me to go away? 

Dorothy {with significance). Oh — if you draw — you 
have as much right here as I. 

Sir Oscar {conscious of reproof). But I am drawing! 
Only if you would permit me to talk just now and then — 
I can always work so much better when I am talking, 

Dorothy. I cannot. 

Sir Oscar {sensible of a snub, retires to his seat and 
draws diligently in profound silence). What a dear little 
girl! How she gives it to one! To be sure she does not 
know anything about me. Perhaps it is bad form to try 
and draw out a woman whilst one's unknown oneself. 
How can I tell her my name, 1 wonder? I won't lose sight 
of her. She is too charming for anything. I must wait 
a little before I try, 

[Shetches carefully for an hour, but shetches the pro^ 
file of his companion instead of the proportions and 
decorations of the room. She is engrossed in her 
own worTc. 

Sir Oscar {to himself). There! with a few washes of 
color, what a perfect liead that will be! And she has not 
an idea of what i have done. It is a very delicate profile; 
she must have good blood in her. Women are always 
kind to me; I don't see why she should be so uncivil. I 
suppose it puts a woman's |)ack up to be seen here by all 
the idiots that dawdle through their Murray — stared at, 
pestered, and worried all day long. I will leave her alone 

till the time comes to go, and then (Aloud.) Pray 

forgive me if I venture to disturb you before I go; it is 
now one o'clock; the man will come for me. Might I be 
permitted to ask — did I hear you rightly? — did you really 
say you were copying these tapestries for — for— -any one? 



IJ^ PITTI. 101 

Dorothy. For the tradesman who has ordered them — 
yes. _ 

Sir Oscar. Then might I ask a very great favor indeed 
of you? Might I beg you to paint me a suite of this fur- 
niture? As I said, I am going to have some rooms in my 
own house decorated like these, with some tapestries that 
I found in Flanders, and if you would have the infinite 
goodness 

Dorotliy, There is no question of goodness — I copy for 
* any one who employs me. - 

Sir Oscar {disconcerted). Ah, exactly — but, still, you 
know, it will be a very great favor for me if you will per- 
mit me to be classed amongst your 

Dorothy, Patrons. When I have finished this set I 
shall be happy to begin other pieces for you. It is my trade. 

Sir Oscar, Pray do not call it a trade! 

Dorothy. You cannot call it an art. 

Sir Oscar. But indeed it is, as you do it. You have 
made me very happy. May I see you again to-morrow? 

Dorothy. I am always here. But there is nothing to 
see me for, if you will give your orders now, and tell me 
where to send the pieces when finished. 

Sir Oscar. Here is my card. I am staying at the Ho- 
tel del' Arno; but the paintings of course will be sent to 
Eivaux, my own place. We had one wing burnt down last 
autumn; and, as I must rebuild it, I thought I would 
make it a re])lica of this part of the Pitti. 

Dorothy {glancing at his card). Since you are rich 
enough to do that, you should not have imitation tapes- 
tries on your sofas and chairs, when you have real ones 
on the walls. Go to the School of Art in Kensington. 
They say their embroideries are beautiful. 

Sir Oscar. Oh, thanks; but I want you to do these 
identical chairs. 

Dorothy. As you please. If you will write your di- 
rections, I will attend to them as soon as this commission 
is finished. 

Sir Oscar {to himself). Clearly she wants to get rid 
of me. {Aloud.) Where may I send them? 

Dorothy. You might leave them on that table. 

Sir Oscar. I shall return to-morrow. I will bring 
them. I suppose the man won't forget to unlock the 
door? 



102 iisr piTTi. 

Dorothy, Probably not. I was once forgotten until 

sunset. 

Sir Oscar {sotto voce). I wish I might be to-day if you 
were forgotten too! What a cool young lady it is! She 
knows who I am now, but it don't seem to make any dif- 
ference. {Looks at Ms ivatcli.) By Jove, it is half-past 
two! Pardon me — how late do you stay here? 

Dorothy, Till four. 

Sir Oscar. Without eating anything? 

Dorothy. I breakfasted before I came out. 

Sir Oscar, So did I. Still, when it gets on to lunch- 
eon time — not tliat I care much what I eat, but one 
must have something. 

Dorothy. Yes; humanity is very badly organized. 

Sir Oscar, We should lose a good deal of enjoyment 
though, if we didn't eat. 

Dorothy. You think so? To me it seems such a waste 
of time. 

Sir Oscar. ISTot more than the stoker's; the train 
couldn't get on without coals. But I suppose at your age 
you think yourself able to live upon air? 

Dorothy {to herself). What business has he with my 
age? And he is not so very old himself either. 

Sir Oscar, Might I be favored with your address, in 
case — in case — anything should prevent ray coming back 
here to-morrow? 

Dorothy, Certainly. My name is Claremont, and I 
live at the Oolombaia, Via di Petrarca. 

Sir Oscar {lurites it down). So many thanks! The 
Dovecote — what a pretty idea! And are there any other 
doves besides you in it? 

Dorothy {coldly). I live with my mother. It is a poor 
place. We are poor. 

Sir Oscar {te^iipted to say that tvith such a face as hers 
any one is rich enough^ hut refraining). But does not 
your mother feel uneasy about you when you are so long 
away ? 

Dorothy. Oh no; she knows! am strong and well. 

Sir Oscar {thinks). Is it absolute innocence, or ad- 
mirable acting? I'll be shot if I can tell! The girl must 
be conscious of her own pretty face. {Aloud.) It's quite 
awfully hot, don't you think? I really must open that 
window. 



IN PITTI. lOS 

Dorothy, The citstode has forgotten you. 

Sir Oscar {gallantly). Very fortunate for me, 

Dorothy. What, when you have had no luncheon? I 
have two buns here; but I am afraid those will scarcely 
console you. 

Sir Oscar, Indeed, I am perfectly happy. One can 
lunch any day, but it isn't every day that one can enjoy the 
happiness of being 

Dorothy, Locked up! Well, certainly you will have 
full time to complete your designs. 

Sir Oscar, Who taught you to snub people so merci- 
lessly? 

Dorothy, Strangers — who suppose that because I am 
copying in the palace I may be addressed without any 
ceremony, and am here only to amuse them. 

Sir Oscar {coloring). Oh, come; that is very severe! 
I assure you, my dear young lady, I never dreamed of be- 
ing impertinent; I wouldn't be so for worlds; nobody 
could be to you 

Dorothy, I shall be more convinced of that if you will 
kindly allow me to continue my work in silence. 

Sir Oscar, Oh, of course! I beg your pardon {goes 
again into the next room and begins to draio). What a 
severe little kitten it is! Perhaps she is right, though. 
It is not altogether good form to bother tliese people who 
are pinned to their easels here; they must be mobbed and 
stared at day by day till they naturally show fight. That 
man decidedly has forgotten me. If the little girl Avould 
let one talk to her it wouldn't matter, but making archi- 
tectural sketches all alone on an empty stomach is not en- 
livening. I suppose I ought to have tipped the fellow 
beforehand. This is one of the lands of backshish. How 
pluckily the child holds on at her work! Sbe makes one 
ashamed. To think I have never done anything I did not 
like all my life long, and that pretty girl there has to 
slave away in a stifling room to make a few pounds at an 
age when she ought to be doing nothing but lawn-tennis, 
garden parties, and cotillons. If one only might speak 
to her! — but it will seem such awful bad form after that 
snub direct. 

[Hesitates, then si^s down again to his plans; an 
hour passes : four o'clock strikes. 



104 liif PITTI. 

Sir Oscar {taking out Ms watch). Yes, four, as I live. 
Well, now we shall get out. I think I may say a word. 
She is putting ujd her colors. {Aloud.) I suppose we 
shall be let out soon, shall we not? How fearfully warm 
it is! Are you not very tired? Do you never get a head- 
ache or anything? 

Dorothy {rising). Yes, I often get a headache in the 
heat of tlie rooms. The custode will be here in a moment. 
The people all leave the galleries at four. 

Sir Oscar. The fellow has had an extra dose of garlic 
•and blue wine, and has gone to sleep somewhere. He'll 
be sure to come as you said just now. Pray don't mind, 
-and do eat one of your buns. 

Dorothy. I do not want to eat, thanks; I am very 
thirsty; and it is so warm. 

Sir Oscar. Yes, we'll have the window open, though, 
you hinted that the tortures of the Inquisition would fol- 
low. 

Dorothy. It is the rule for no one to touch them. 

Sir Oscar, And do you always follow rules? 

Dorothy. Yes; I think one ought, else what use is it 
for them to be made? 

Sir Oscar, Well, none that I ever could see, that is 
why I make a point of breaking them. 

Dorothy. I suppose that is all very well for a man. 

Sir Oscar, Why, what an old-fashioned little lady you 
are! you are not a bit emancipated, you are quite arrieree. 
Women want all the fun and all the frolic nowadays. 
They don't care to have a day out unless they break down 
*every fence in the country. 

Dorothy, I do not understand your metaphors. 

Sir Oscar. Well, you know, I mean they like all their 
"birds to be rocketers, and they like to put all their money 
on dark horses, and they like the spot stroke in billiards, 
and they'll always win by a fluke if they can — you know 
what I mean. 

Dorothy. I really do not. 

Sir Oscar. Well, — women never run straight if they 
can help it. 

Dorothy {coldly). Your experience must have been un- 
fortunate. 

Sir Oscar {smiling). It's a good deal longer than yours, 
anyhow; you'll allow that. I ought to bog your pardon 



liT PITTI. 105 

for uttering sucli a beastly cynical sentiment; I am sure 
I didn't mean it. If women do get off the line, it's be- 
cause men shunt them there I say — this man is late. One 
can't make him hear? 

Dorothy. Quite impossible. There is nothing for it 
but patience. 

Sir Oscar. An admirable quality wholly missing from 
my constitution. 

Dorothy. Especially when you have had no Inncheon, 

Sir Oscar. Oh, that does not matter; you know when 
one is out grouse-shooting or deer-stalking one goes a 
whole day on cold tea. Do you really come here every 
morning. 

Dorothy. Here, or some similar place, wherever there 
are tapestries or frescoes to be copied. You seem to have 
forgotten — it is my trade, I am only a copyist; I can do 
what you order, I have nothing of my own. 

Sir Oscar. But do you do nothing original? 

Dorothy. Can the mill -horse run about where he likes? 
I never even dare to think of anything original; I should 
have no sale for it. 

Sir Oscar. It makes me sad to hear you say that; I 
fancy you would like to be sketching birds, and flowers, 
and trees, out in the air, wouldn't you? It must be such 
drudgery imitating all these faded figures. I am sorry 
now that I ventured to ask you to paint these chairs for 
me. 

Dorothy. Pray do not be so. I shall be happy to exe- 
cute the work. 

Sir Oscar. I think you said your name is Olaremont? 

Dorothy {coldly). I did say so. 

Sir Oscar. I wonder if 5^ou are any relation of a man 
I was much attached to once; he was my tutor at Eton, 
a magnificent scholar and a true gentleman. What be- 
came of him I never knew. 1 am ashamed to say I for- 
got all about him when I went into the Guards; one grows 
so brutally selfish in the world. He was called Tom Olare- 
mont; he had been a Balliol Scholar 

Dorothy. I think you speak of my father. 

Sir Oscar {ivith great animation). You don't mean it! 
Well, you ^re like him, now I think of it. Is he — is he 
■ — living? 

Dorothy. • No: he died many years ago. He had been 



106 1^ PITTI. 

obliged to come to Italy for his health. He married here. 
I know he was once a tutor at Eton. 

Sir Oscar {with feeling). My dear little lady, don't 
snub me any more; I can assure you 1 loved Tom Clare- 
mont as much as a boy can love anything; any grain of 
sense or decency I have in me I owe to him, to say noth- 
ing of any Greek and Latin. You are the daughter of a 
very noble fellow. He deserved a better fate than to die 
in a foreign land and leave his child to work for her liv- 
ing. 

Dorothy. He had always worked for his own, I believe. 
He always told me to rely on myself. He said poverty 
mattered little, but independence was the bread of life. 

Sir Oscar. Oh, he was always a very proud fellow — if 
he had been less so he might have been a head master or 
a bishop before now; but he could never eat that humble 
pie which is the only food that makes a man climb a bean- 
stalk. I was only a boy — a very graceless tiresome boy — 
but I was devoutly attached to him. You do not seem to 
believe me? 

Dorothy {hesitates). You did not care to learn what 
became of him! 

Sir Oscar, My dear child — I beg your pardon — I mean 
you don't understand what the world is when a young fel- 
low is just launched into it, with money enough and birth 
enough for everybody to come buzzing about him like 
bees. There is no room left for old friendships. The 
whole year is a galop ventre a terre. Everybody flatters 
you; everybody invites you; you think everybody femin- 
ine is an angel, and every man Jack of them a good fel- 
low. You are like a colt in a clover field — you don't know 
that the pace will tell on you and that you may come a 
cropper before you've done, though you are first favorite. 
Myself, I went straight from Eton into the First Life, 
and — and — and I enjoyed myself; I did no end of follies; 
I spent a great deal of money — I bought my experience, in 
a word — and bought it pretty dear. Well, all this don't 
interest you, I know: only I want you to understand how 
it was that I came not to know anything about Tom Clare- 
mont. One never does know anything about one's tutors. 
But, on my honor, I very often thought of him. He had 
had great ideas of what I might do, and I had disap- 
pointed him greatly by becoming a G-uardsman — no doubt 



11^ PITTI. 107 

he thought much better of me than I deserved. I had a 
sort of reluctance to see him when, after all, I had just 
fallen into the ruck with the others, and done nothing on 
earth except amuse myself; and so, you see, the time 
slipped away and I never met him again; and now you say 
he died years ago, and you are his daughter? 

Dorothy {the tears in her eyes). Yes, he died some 
years ago; at Oamaldoii one summer. 

Sir Oscar, Ah! *^ the pity of it!" When one of my 
big livings came vacant, I wrote and offered it to him. I 
was just of age then. He thanked me, but he would not 
take it. He had some scruples abouc preaching what he 
did not believe. He was not orthodox; he was something 
much better. I ought to have gone and offered it to him. 
I shall never forgive myself. 

Dorothy. He would not have taken it. He thought 
the whole system of the Church of England wrong. He 
used to say that the beneficed clergyman was worse than 
the fat monk, for the monk at least gave no dinner-parties 
and had no liveried servants. 

8ir Oscar. How like him! I can hear him say it. 
Yes, he was one of the few men who lived up to their 
principles. What did old Hildebrand write? ^^ Dilexi 
justitium, et odivi iniquitatem, propterea morior in exilio.'' 

Dorothy. I am prouder of him, so. 

Sir Oscar. Quite justly. To have the courage of one's 
opinions and to suffer for them is the grandest thing a 
man can do. It is not my way; but I can admire it. 

Dorothy. Have you no opinions? I suppose you hardly 
lack the courage? 

Sir Oscar, Perhaps I lack both — I don't know. You 
see there is nothing to try me; I have always done what I 
wished to do; and when you are an idle Colonel of Guards, 
nobody expects you to have any *^ views." 

Dorothy (with interest). The Guards! Did vou go to 
Egypt? 

Sir Oscar. Oh yes — Kossassin and Cairo, and all the 
rest of it. It was over too soon; that was the worst of it. 
If only Arabi had destroyed the Canal we should have had 
a great deal more fun; we might have been there now. 
To be sure {lowering his voice) I should not have had the 
happiness of meeting dear Tom Claremont's charming 
daughter. 



108 IN PITTI. 

Dorothy (bncsquely). Please do not pay me compli- 
ments. Eemember I cannot get away from them. 

Sw Oscar, I beg your pardon for the hundredth time; 
and it wasn't a compliment. Did your father teach you 
to draw? 

Dorothy, No; but he encouraged me to study in the 
galleries. He thought I should be able to support myself. 
He knew he could only leave us a hundred and fifty 
pounds a year in English money. 

Sir Oscar. Good heavens! what one gives for a weight- 
carrier! 

Dorothy, A weight-carrier? 

Sir Oscar. A horse that can carry twelve stone over 
plow. I forget you are not used to the English we talk 
at home. Claremont, I am sure, reared you on Shake- 
speare and Ford and Marlowe? 

Dorothy. Why do you talk that other English? 

Sir Oscar, I don't know why. In the world one gets 
a sort of jargon. It is the same thing in French; what 
we say on the Boulevards and in the Oercles would sound 
like high Dutch to Voltaire or Marmontel or Madame de 
Sevigne. Fashion always has its patois. You know it is 
a law to itself. 

Dorothy. I know nothing about it. Fashion and I 
have never been introducod to each other. 

Sir Oscar (thinJcs). And yet what a charming creat- 
ure you would look if one handed you over to Worth, and 
put five rows of pearls round your throat, and gave you 
tan gloves up to your elbow, and a big fan with sapphires 
in the handle — you would take to it in five seconds. You 
have the eternel feminin in you, though you work away 
so bravely with your dyes and your varnishes at that ugly 
coarse cloth. What an amusement it would be to teach 
you everything — to show you your own powers, to make 
you understand all there is in yourself — and one must 
never try to do it, because you are Tom Claremont's 
daughter! If one could hurt his daughter one would de- 
serve hanging without court-martial. {Aloud.) Might 
I ask — you spoke of your mother — did my old friend marry 
an Italian? 

Dorothy. My mother is a German; she was Countess 
Hedenige von Brander. She met my father in Rome. Her 



IX PITTI. 109 

own people have refused to know her since her marriage; 
they leave us quite to ourselves. She is blind. 

iSir Oscar. Blind I Good heavens, my poor child! 
what have you done to Fate that you should be so perse- 
cuted? 

Dorothy. Fate might be much more cruel. I have 
my blessings. My mother is not at all unhappy. She is 
of the sweetest temper. She has a beautiful voice and 
sings beautifully. If she could be reconciled to her own 
people she would desire nothing more; but they are very 
hard of heart. They thought the marriage beneath her 
because my father was not noble and was poor; but if you 
knew him you knew that he was worthy of an empress. 

Sir Oscar. Most surely. (ThinJcs to himself.) So 
that is where you get your blond curls and your little air 
of hauteur. You are a German aristocrat at bottom, 
though you have Claremont's brown eyes, and Claremont's 
simple good sense. You are really very interesting; and 
how innocently you accept me for your father's friend, 
though for aught you could know I might be only telling 
you a heap of falsehoods! 

Dorothy {restlessly). Is it not very strange this custode 
does not come? He left me here once until six; but then 
it was only myself — now he knows that you are here. 

Sir Oscar. I ought to have refreshed his memory with 
five francs. But if you are not in a hurry I am not; if 
he had come at the regulation hour I should never have 
found out you were Claremont's daughter. Now you will 
let me call on you, won't you? 

Dorothy {hesitating). Yes — I suppose — I don't know 
— I will ask my mother. She does not wish people to 
call; she dislikes new acquaintances. 

Sir Oscar (sotto voce). Afraid of the hawks for her 
dove — one can understand; and she can't see what's going 
on, poor soul. But I sha'n't do the child any harm; I 
should always feel Tom Claremont's ghost after me. 

Dorothy [uneasily). What time is it? Perhaps my 
"watch has stopped. 

Sir Oscar. Mine's half -past six, but it may be to*o fast; 
I haven't listened to the town clocks lately. Do tell me 
more about your father. Did he suffer greatly? Ah! how 
sad that is! Where did you say he died? At Camaldoli? 
Where is Camaldoli? 



liO IJS" flTII. 

Dorothy. It is a monastery in the hills which has been 
ehaiiged into an hotel; it stands in the midst of pine for- 
ests. The physicians ordered him to go to Davos Phitz; 
but we could not afford to move so far. He was so pa- 
tient, so quiet; it seems only yesterday — please do nut 
speak of it 

Sir Oscar, If only he had accepted my living! It is 
the living of Rivaux — my own place. I should have seen 
yoti as a little child; you would have had all an English 
child's playtime, archery, lawn-tennis, pony-riding, boat- 
ing; Rivaux would please you, I think. It's an old Stuart 
place buried in very deep woods; you can ride thirty miles 
on turf. I used to call it beastly dull, bat of late I've 
got fond of it; after the glare and scorch of Egypt last 
year it looked so cool and green and pleasant I was glad 
to see it again. 

Dorothy. If I had a place like that I should never 
leave it. 

Sir Oscar. Well, you know, I think it was much bet- 
ter for the country when the people didn't leave their 
places. In the last century it was a mere liandful of peo- 
ple who could afford Court life in London or in Paris, and 
the country-houses in England and the chateaux in France 
benefited proportionately; the territorial nobility and 
gentry lived in their own county or their own province all 
their lives. Now we've changed all that; even the little 
bits of folks think they must have their town season, and 
never go near their places except when they have a house- 
party at Easter, or for the shooting in autumn. They 
play' right into the hands of the Socialists; it is ridiculous 
that heaps of great houses and great parks should all be 
monopolized by people who are scarcely in them six whole 
weeks out of the year. 

Dorothy, Why are you in Florence in April? 

Sir Oscar, Well, because I have the disease of the 
time; the French call it peregrinomanie. Besides, you 
know, a man alone — if I were married I would live more 
thap half my time at Rivaux. As it is, I'm a good deal 
there. 

Dorothy, But if you are a soldier? 

Sir Oscar. Oh, yes, I am in the First Life; but that 
doesn't tie one much. I did go to Egypt; I would go any- 
where else if they sent us anywhere else; but they don't. 



li^" PITTI. Ill 

Sometimes I think your father was right. I ought not to 
have gone in the Guards; I might have studied, and that 
.sort of thing; instead, I let all my best years slip away in 
that idle London life which makes one good for nothing 
€lse. 

Dorothy, Have you no relatives at all? — no mother or 
sisters? 

Sir Oscar, My mother died long ago; I have two sis- 
ters; entirely fine ladies; they don't care a hang about me, 
nor I a rap about them; they are larky women, both of 
them, more than I like. 

Dorothy, That is the English which is not Shake- 
-speare's. What does it mean? 

Sir Oscar, It is hardly worth while to tell you. I 
only meant to say that my siscers both married whilst I 
was at Eton, and there is no sort of sympathy between us. 
Oh, I have lots of relations — about five hundred; bub I 
see as little of them as possible; they are always wanting 
something — my county borough, or my lord-lieutenancy, 
or my tenants' votes, or a hundred guineas for a charity; 
they are always wanting something, if it's only to be asked 
to dine at Hurlingham. 

Dorothy. You are honey, and the flies eat you. 

Sir Oscar. Oh, I assure you, I am not honey; I can 
be very bitter sometimes, especially if I feel people want 
to get over me. 

Dorothy, To get over? That means ? 

Sir Oscar, Well, in our language, it means cheat one, 
use one for their own purposes. 

Dorothy, Is it not just as easy to say " cheat " as ^' get 
over"? 

Sir Oscar, I suppose it would be. That slipshod lan- 
guage is a habit — a bad habit, like smoking cigarettes. I 
hope you don't smoke, do you? 

Dorothy, I! Smoke. I ! 

Sir Oscar, How dreadfully scandalized you look! I 
was sure you didn't. If you knew how sick one gets of 
seeing the women smoke, and making believe they like it, 
and spoiling their lips and their breath! 

Dorothy, I did not know women ever smoked. In 
/what country do they. 

Sir Oscar, In that very queer country which you hap- 
pily have never traversed — Society. If you had smoked. 



112 IK PITTI. 

however, I have some cigarettes with me, and it might 
iiave made you feel less hungry. 

Dorothy, Thanks, I am not hungry, I have eaten my 
buns. Bat you must want your dinner terribly, Colonel 
Sir Oscar — I am not sure what you are called? 

Sir Oscar, My men call me the first; society the seo- 
ond. You can call me whatever you like, so long as yoti 
don't call me de trop or impertinent. You did think me 
impertinent, didn't you? 

Dorothy, Yes, a little. You see, when one is work- 
ing, as I am, one is so much at the mercy of those who 
passs through; and my mother is always so anxious that 
( should speak to no strangers, I cannot help answering 
now and then, because they ask me questions about my 
work or about the pictures, and sometimes they are very 
kind and agreeable — sometimes they are rude. 

Sir Oscar, I was in the latter category, but I shall 
never be so again. Your mother is quite right; you are 
much too — young — to speak to people you see in these- 
places that are open to the public. 

Dorothy {gayly). But when one works for the public? 

Sir Oscar, I can't believe you do. I mean, you know, 
it seems awfully wrong that you should need to work hard, 
whilst here am I 

Dorothy, What has that got to do with it? There is 
nothing wrong about it. That is the sort of thing the 
Communists say; but an English gentleman 

Sir Oscar, May feel ashamed of himself, mayn't he? 
I mean you know, that to see a little lady of your years, 
and your — your appearance — shutting herself up all day 
and toiling away for her mother, makes one's own selfish, 
idle, self-indulgent life seem the most hateful thing under 
the sun. 

Dorothy, I do not see it at all. I am not the least bib 
of a radical. I am sure it is all these inequalities which 
make life picturesque; if it were all a dead level, there 
would be no hills to climb, no valleys to repose in; I think 
it delightful that there sliould be people rich enough and 
happy enough to enjoy themselves all their lives long. If 
I were living near Eivaux, I should be the better for 
Rivaux every time I walked through it; I should not want 
to own it. To hear the birds sing, to see the primroses 
come out 



IN PITTI. 113 

Sir Oscar {admiringly). What a philosopher you are! 
I recognize Claremont's spirit in that admirable selfish- 
ness, in that absolute absence of envy; he was always like 
that. He came to Eivaux once in my father's time, and 
I remember that he enjoyed it just in your spirit; he said 
he made it his own through his eyes. Are you his only 
child? 

Dorothy, Yes. He taught me all I know. Were I 
only more like him! 

Sir Oscar, I think you are very like him. Perhaps 
the best gift of all he gave you has been that of his cheer- 
ful content and sweet ungrudging justice to all men. It 
is such a rare quality in private as in public life; no doubt 
it is so rare because it is only possible to the highest nat- 
ures. 

Dorothy. How well you understood him! 

Sir Oscar. Perhaps I understand him better by my 
memories of him than I did when I was a lad, too eager to 
enjoy myself to care much for anything else. If I had 
followed his example and his counsels, I should have been 
a very different man and a much more useful one in my 
generation. 

Dorothy, You have been fighting in Egypt. 

Sir Oscar. Is that usefnl? Well, anybody could have 
done what I did — lost three chargers and hunted down a 
few poor beasts of fellahs. I made some sketches cer- 
tainly, but they're not worth much. Those marvelous 
sunsets, and hard white moons— one could not reproduce 
them if one were Turner himself. 

Dorothy {in awe). Did you really hill an Egyptian? 

Sir Oscar. I really did — three or four, I believe. One 
was there to do it, you know. I would rather they had 
been Germans or Kussians. It seemed a little too like 
mowing down grass. 

Dorothy. I suppose it had to be done, as you say; but 
it is horrible — to see any one sit there — drawing — and to 
think that they, have killed others a few months ago; you 
cannot fancy how terrible it seems! It frightens me 

Sir Oscar {smiling). Desdemona was frightened, but 
she liked it. Women always do like it. 

Dorothy. I do not like it. 

Sir Oscar, Oh yes, you do. You are not quite so sin- 
cere as usual when you say you don't. 



114 IK PITTI. 

Dorothy {coloring). Perhaps — I do not know — yes, 
perhaps in a way T like it. It seems wonderful to think 
you have killed men last year and would not hurt me; 
but still it is terrible to think of it. 

8i7^ Oscar. Precisely; it was terrible to Desdemona. 

Dorothy. Desdemona! 

Sir Oscar. Yes; you remember she loved him for the 
perils he had passed, and I dare say a little also for the 
damage he had done. 

Dorothy (hurriedly). I don't see — I mean How 

very strange it is that the custode does not come; the light 
seems growing less; it will soon be dusk. 

Sir Oscar (cheerfully). Of course the old fellow will 
come when night falls. They are sure to shut the palace 
up carefully. Do you know that I am beginning to be- 
lieve in fate? 

Dorothy. Indeed? Because an Italian door-keeper has 
forgotten his keys? 

Sir Oscar. Well, yes, and for other things. Oddly 
enough, I hated coming into Italy. I had got together a 
nice lot of people for Easter down at my place; and after 
that I meant to spend May in Paris; I like Paris im- 
mensely, and my horses are running there; but an old 
friend of mine telegraphed to me that he was dying in 
Eome. He had set his heart on seeing me, meant to make 
me guardian to his boy, and all that; a nice sort of guard- 
ian, you will say; but, however, he'd got that idea in 
his head, and he was down with typhoid, and the boy all 
alone with him; so I went. He didn't die, not a bit of it; 
and he's going home next week. But he would have 
died, I am sure, if I'd stayed in London, out of the very 
perversity of things. So as he got well and I found my- 
self in Italy I stopped a few days here on my way back 
just to*ee the pictures and things, and I thought I'd take 
a sketch of the Arazzi rooms for Eivaux, for I recollected 
them; and so — and so, you see — you know now why I be- 
gin to believe in fate. 

Dorothy. I really do not. You say your friend would 
have died if you had stayed at home; so there can't be 
any fate at all — only a rigmarole con trad ic 1:0 ry set of 
chances. 

Sir Oscar. That is very unkind; I only meant that 
things go like that. As I set off to see him die, he didn't 



IN" PITTI. 115 

die; if I had stayed at home, he would have died inevita- 
bly, so that I should have been full of self-reproach all 
the rest of my days. I believe in fate, though you refuse 
to see its hand. 

Dorothy, I cannot see anything except a natural se- 
quence of circumstances. 

Sir Oscar. Well, but why is it that one '^sequence of 
circumstances" leaves a man just where he was before, 
and another alters everything and brings him across some- 
body who changes the face of things for him? 

Dorothy (with a little emlarrassment). A custode, for 
instance, who keeps one without luncheon and makes one 
late for dinner! Well, it is to be hoped he is not met 
with every day. You must be very hungry. Sir Oscar. 

8ir Oscar. I am, I grant; but it don't matter; we 
were awfully huns'ry at times in Egypt. The cook was all 
there, but the food wasn't. Here we are like those poor 
brutes that the Chinese kill by hanging them up in a cage 
in sight of a meat-shop. There is food all round us in 
Florence, but we can't get at it. There is a kind of scent 
of dinner in the air, isn't there? 

Dorothy. I hardly perceive it. Do you hear the night- 
ingales in Boboli? 

Sir Oscar. Ah! you see that is the difference between 
our ages. Sunset to you suggests nightingales, and to me 
dinner. 

Dorothy. But you must hear the nightingales. Listen! 

Sir Oscar. Very pretty. Where are they? 

Dorothy, In Boboli, the gardens yonder. Are your 
gardens at Rivaux equal to ours, with their dark ilexes 
and their moss-grown marbles? 

Sir Oscar. They are another sort of garden altogether. 
Italian gardens are meant for moonlight nights and 
Romeo and Juliet, and perhaps a dagger glistening some- 
where under the white lilies; ours are made rather for 
sunny afternoons and lawn-tennis, and tea in Worcester 
cups, and Kate Greenaway's little girls, and all kinds of 
cigars. There is an old Dutch garden though at Rivaux, 
very prim and shady, and full of sweet-scented flowers, 
which might please you, and where you would sit under 
clipped walls of box and read old Herrick. Do you think 
you will come to England this year? 



116 IN" PITTI. 

Dorothy, This year! we never go there or anywhere. 
I have never even seen England. I was born here. 

Sir Oscar, Florence has always been a fortunate city! 
I should be so glad if you and your mother would come 
to Eivaux. I have lots of ladies who honor me there. 

Dorothy {laughs a little). Fancy me in my gray gown 
amongst a number of grand people. Do you know that 
I have never been to a party of any kind in all my life, 
nor to any theater, even though we are in the land of 
Mimi f 

Sir Oscar. How delightful! How I should like to be 
the first to drive you down the Champs-Elysees at the 
retour du Bois, or take you on a Saturday to Hurlingham 
or Eanelagh, and to the opera afterward ! I wonder if 
it would strike you as bewilderingly enchanting or pre- 
posterously absurd. Sometimes the whole thing seems to 
me the hugest farce under the sun. 

Dorothy, Listen! {The nightingales sing louder in the 
gardens on the other side of the court helotv. ) 

Sir Oscar. The last nightingales I heard were at Mar- 
low. We had sailed down the river and dined; they 
chaffed me about going out to Egypt, said I and my charger 
should sink overhead down in the sand, like the Master 
of Kavenswood, you know. What trash we all talked; 
and when we were a minute silent there was the shouting 
of the birds — for they do shout, you know — and little 
^N'essie Hamilton said that Nilsson wasn't a patch on them. 
(Is silent, thinhing,) What a beast I am to speak of 
Nessie Hamilton to her! — to be sure it don't hurt her, she 
don't know what brutes we were at Marlow that night 
while the nightingales sang on through it all just outside 
the windows. How pretty she looks, the little gray frock 
is enchanting, it makes her look as if she had dressed up 
as a boy -monk for a freak. These dusky rooms with all 
their tapestries, and just that fair curly hair in the midst 
of them, and the birds trilling away in the distance — it's 
much better than Marlow; it's a scene out of some old 
drama of Massinger or Ford. How reverent she looks as 
she listens to those birds, she has the face of a girl at 
prayer. I should like her to think of me in her prayers. 
Somehow one fancies it would do one good if there be any- 
thing better than this life. 



IJ^ PITTI. 117 

]_The dig dell of S. Maria dei Fiori rings for the Avs 
Maria, 

DorotJiy {rising with agitation). That is the Ve^iti 
ire! and they do not come! What shall I do? What- 
ever will my mother think? Can we make no one hear? 

Sir Oscar, Won't the nightingales console you? 

Dorothy. Oh, pray do not jest of it! Only think how 
wretched my mother will be, expecting me hour after 
hour — I am never later than five — and nobody is with her 
but our stupid Teresina; and they do not dream I am 
here, because I went out to paint in the Spanish cloister 
jmd came here instead because the church was shut up. 
Oh, cannot you make them hear? Do call — shout out — 
as if you were telling the Life Guards td charge! 

Sir Oscar. I will do my very best. I do shout a good 
deal, especially on a field-day, and still more when my 
yacht's shipping heavy seas and the skipper's a duffer; 
here goes! 

[Leans out of the windoio andhalloos; there is no 
res;ponse save from an echo. 

DorotJiy {in des])air). l^o one hears! Oh, how terri- 
ble it is! What ever can I do? 

Sir Oscar. I fear there is nothing to be done. I 
would get down the wall somehow or another, but these 
confounded French windows — French windows in an 
Italian palace!— are too narrow for me to squeeze through 
them; you see, unluckily, I'm the big Guardsman of 
FuncWs pictures. If I only knew what to do! I'm afraid 
I must bore you horribly. 

Dorothy. Oh no! you are so kind, and I am so selfish. 
I forget how you must want your dinner. 

Sir Oscar. That is a minor ill; I have been hungry 
ere now and have survived it. What concerns me is the 
worry for yourself and your mother at home. Of course 
it will end all right; we are not shut up here to endure 
the fate of the Ugolini; somebody will come some time; 
but meantime you must be beginning to hate the sight of 
me. 

Dorothy {naively). No, indeed, you have made me for- 
get the time; you have been very kind. 

Sir Oscar {to himself). How sweetly she says that! 
and not an idea of any suspicion of me. Good heavens! 



118 IN PITTI. 

what capital Nessie Hamilton, or any of them, would have- 
made out of this as a ^' situation." Wliat affected fears, 
what nasty modesties, what suggestive attitudes tliey 
would have got out of it! This child only thinks that her 
mother is crying at home, and that I want my dinner. 
(He makes the tour of the three apartme7its which are open, 
and returns.') I have tried to force each of the doors, but 
they defy me. There is no exit of any sort possible. 
What can I do? You know the place. Command me. 
I will do the possible and the impossible. 

Dorothy [groiving pale), I think there is nothing you 
can do, as you can make no one hear. It is quite inex- 
plicable. The man must have drank too much and gone 
to sleep — and it is nearly dark. 

Sir Oscar, How those nightingales do go on; their 
little voices penetrate where mine is lost — the superior 
power of sweetness over volume. It looks darker here 
than it is outside, because of all these tapestries. To 
think you have had nothing to eat all day! 

Dorothy, I do not mind that; I often eat nothing all 
day. Would you like to smoke? I think you said you 
had cigars. 

jSir Oscar. No, thanks; I don't care about it. It would 
only bother you. 

Dorothy. Indeed, no; I do not mind. You say if you 
smoke you feel less hungry. 

JSir Oscar. Well, I'll go and light up in the next room 
to show you how I appreciate your kindness. (He goes 
and smokes and reflects.) On my honor if there be such 
a thing as love at first sight, I am in love! After all what 
could one find better than Tom Olaremont's daughter? 
He was the finest fellow that ever lived; beggared himself 
for sake of being honest to his Church and loyal to his 
opinions; he was a scholar and a gentleman, every inch 
of him. If I've anything decent in me, it is to Claremont 
that 1 owe it. I was a horrid little spoilt bumptious ass 
when I went to him, and he made a man of me. If I fell 
away from his teachings afterward it was nobody's fault 
but my own. She's infinitely charming, she is so utterly 
innocent, and yet you can see she could hold her own very 
bravely. What a pretty voice too! and what a complexion, 
like a roseleaf ! After all, Piver can't give them anything^ 
that looks like the real thing. I wonder what she would 



IN PITTI. 119 

say if she were told I thought of her seriously — box my 
ears, I fancy, metaphorically. It sounds awfully ridicu- 
lous, when I've been afraid of being caught by women ever 
since I was twenty, and when I've seen her just a few 
hours ago in these rooms; but I think one might do worse. 
I'd always an idea of finding somebody out of the common 
run; I'm dead sick of all our women, they are so terribly 
alike; and then, one knows those girls would marry the 
devil himself if he made good settlements. Now, this one 
I believe would go on painting linen to the end of her 
days rather than sell herself. What immense fun it would 
be to show her the world; I am sure she's got it in her to 
enjoy herself; shut up with a blind mother, and forced to 
drudge in galleries for her livelihood, she must be like a 
bird in a cage. If one had her with one, and just took 
her to Paris, and gave Worth carte Manclie, what a pict- 
ure she'd be in a month! and it would do one s^ood to hear 
her laugh; yet I think she'd hate it all, and like to get to 
the greenery and the roses down at Eivaux — at least, I 
fancy so. I fancy she'd always like the country best, and 
perhaps she'd like riding, she's the figure that ought to 
ride well. Good heavens! to be tied down here in the 
heat, painting saints and goddesses and landscapes on 
cloth for a lot of dealers and Yankees! It is atrocious! 
Andromeda and the rock was nothing to it. And so brave 
and so quiet and so grateful as she is about it! and only 
thinking of her mother, never a bit of herself. It seems a 
shame to make love to her shut up alone with me as she 
is, it would only frighten her; and it's growing dark as 
pitch. It will be very horrid for her; one must not say 
anything that would scare her; it would be too unfair. 
{He fhroios the end of the cigarette in a corner ^ and looks 
around the room.) If only one could find a bit of light it 
would comfort her; it's odious for her, poor child, to be 
alone with a stranger like this. If she weren't so unsus- 
picious she would think I'd bribed the custode. {Sees on 
a marlle console an end of wax candle; tahes it and goes 
to her.) Here's an a,tom of wax candle, I found it in that 
inner room. I'll try and light it, though I've only fusees, 
and stick it in one of those candelabra; it will be better 
than nothing. Perhaps they will see a light in those win- 
dows, and come up, some of them. There! A feeble il- 
lumination, but still it will serve to keep ghosts away. If 



120 11^ PITTI. 

they imprison people here they ought to leave a lamp or 
two and something in the cupboard to eat. Pray don't he 
alarmed at— at — about anything, Miss Ckiremont. Fll 
go in the furthest room, if you like^ and you can pile the 
furniture between us 

Dorothy {simjjly). Why should I do that? I should 
be more alarmed if I were alone, I am a little — just a 
little — afraid of being in the dark. My father was always 
angry with me for being so; he said it was to distrust Nat- ' 
ure^ to limit the power of God; of course it is if one rea- 
son about it; but one can't always reason; at least, I can't. 

Sir Oscarm No pretty woman ever should! Don't be 
angry with me. It slipped out unawares. You see, it 
was such a natural reply to you. {TImihs to himself.) 
You are adorable! It never enters your head that I might 
be a brute to you. On my soul, I will be the lion to your 
Una. I don't think I've led a very decent life; but na 
old woman could be more careful of you than I will be. 
Only there will be the mischief to pay if we do stay here 
all night and the gossips get hold of my name in the morn- 
ing. They will damn you, poor child, for all the rest of 
your days. The world don't believe in Una. What a 
blackguard world it is! (Aloud,) Hark at your night- 
ingales! Did your father ever recite to you Ford's 
*' Lutist and Nighti^igale "? I almost think it is the finest 
poem in the English language. 

Dorothy, It is very beautiful — I know it by heart. 
Only there is one fault in all the poets when they write of 
nightingales. They speak of her as sad. Now, it is h& 
who is most joyous. 

Sir Oscar. To be sure; you are quite right. That 
blunder comes from ^don. Hark at them! What a flood 
of song! What rivalry! 

Dorothy, Do they sing like that in England? 

Sir Oscar, I think not. 

Dorothy. Perhaps in England they cannot see their 
notes; there are no fireflies to light them! {She meets his 
glance, and colors and looks away.) Tell me all about 
Egypt; that will pass the time. I am so fond of stories; 
my father used to tell me so many. 

Sir Oscar. Ah, I haven't your father's talent. I've 
talked what you call bad English so many years that I've 
lost all power of speaking in the sort of language you like* 



IN" PITTI. 121 

I can tell you what I saw myself, but I'm afraid I shall 
tell it ill. The thing that hurt me most was the death 
of poor Blacl<: Douglas, my best horse; I bred him myself 
at Rivaux six years ago; an Arab stabbed him, in a thicket 
of reeds, and he carried me five miles home, to camp, with 
the knife sticking in him, and then dropped. 

[He tells her about Egyi^t for half an hour; the iells 
sound half -^mst eight; it groius darh outside; the 
candle burns loiv. 

Sir Oscar (aloud.) That fellow hasn't twenty minutes 
more life in him; perhaps there are some other bits of 
wax somewhere. Kassassin, do you say? Oh no, it 
wasn't anything wonderful; it was a melee; we cut and 
thrust and charged and recharged, but we didn't know 
very well what we were doing. It is always so with us 
English, you know; we go into the thing as if it were polo, 
and we get out of it, God knows how. I wish we could 
get out of this for your sake; you begin to look so tired. 
It's quite shocking for you to have gone all day on those 
two buns, and not even a drop of water, 

Dorothy. If I could let my mother know I am safe! 
She will imagine every dreadful accident under the sun, 
and they will never think to come here — at least, I fear 
not. 

Sir Oscar. Perhaps they may, later on; I always fan- 
cied there was nothing money couldn't do for one, but this 
is certainly a facer. (He thinhs.) I should like to tell 
her all I think of her; but I suppose it would be brutal 
when she is shut up like this; it might frighten her, she 
wouldn't understand. On my honor, I never felt so 
inclined to marry a woman before! but she might be 
frightened or angry; she can't get away from me; it won't 
do to embarrass her. It's likely enough we sha'n't get 
out till morning; it will be awfully cruel for her. What 
^ tale they'd make of it in the clubs if it were to get 
wind; I suppose they'd chaff me and call me Scipio for 
the rest of my days. 

Dorothy (with distress). How can ^they possibly treat 
me like this! — they know me so well, I come here so 
continually. Of course it is not like the galleries, which 
they must close; but still they ought to shut up the palace 
at sunset. 



122 liif piTTi. 

Sir Oscar, They have forgotten this particular corner 
of it. Pray don't fret; if I could get them to come by 
breaking my neck I assure you I wouldn't hesitate a min- 
ute; but when I can't get out of any one of the windowsl 
■ — there are moments^ and these are one of them^ in which 
one feels that it may occasionally be better to be a midge 
than a giant. 

Dorothy, If you could get out of the windows you 
could do nothing; they are an immense height. 

Sir Oscar, I would chance it for your sake. 

Dorothy {smiling). Or — to dine? 

Sir Oscar, That is very cruel. Have I shown any re- 
membrance that I have not dined? Indeed, after that 
cigarette which you so kindly allowed me, I am quite re- 
freshed body and spirit. But that you should not even 
have a glass of water distresses me infinitely. 

Dorothy {the tears coming to her eyes). Oh, all that 
does not matter in the least. It is to think how unhappy 
my poor mother must be! And you know everything is 
so much worse to those who are blind. They feel they 
can do nothing. 

Sir Oscar {fnoves restlessly). Pray, pray, don't cry. I 
never can stand seeing a woman cry. I know it's awful 
for you, and one feels such a fool not to be able to do- 
something. Perhaps I could smash the door if I put my 
shoulder to it. Shall I try? 

Dorothy, ]S"o, I think you could not move it; these 
doors are so strong; and they would put you in prisott 
afterward. 

Sir Oscar. I would chance that. If it won't frighten 
you I'll try if I can't smash the panels in; I'm about as 
strong as most men. I see nothing else for it. Here 
goes? 

Dorothy. Oh! pray don't; you may hurt yourself, and 
they will be so angry. * 

Sir Oscar {smiling). My dear, I'm more likely to hurt 
the wall. The worst of it is, that these things they made 
in the dark ages arc so confoundedly well made that they'd 
almost resist artillery. If it were a door in my house in 
London, we'd send it flying into splinters in two seconds.. 
Stand out of the way and let me have a try before the can- 
dle goes out; you won't mind my taking my coat off?' 
Why, how pale yoa are! Do you think the thing will 



I]^ PITTI. 123 

tumble on me like the gates of Gaza? Pray don't be 
frightened. I tlionght you were such a cool cou- 
rageous little lady. I assure you the only damage done 
will be to these very handsome panels, and money will 
repair that. 'Now, see here, I am going to try. If I fail, 
you will be no worse off; if I succeed, you can run away, 
as soon as the door's down, and they'll never know that 
you have been shut up here with me, don't you see? 
(Thinks.) What an innocent it is! She don't dream that 
people might say horrid things! Here is the real inno- 
cence — Una's innocence — too pure even to imagine evil, 
and knowing no fear. I always wished to find that sort 
of thing, but I thought it was the four-leaved shamrock! 
(Aloud,) Will you please stand out of the way and hold 
the candle while I try? Here goes! 

l^Puts his shoulder to the door; heaves and pushes 
vainly for ten minutes; pauses to take hreath. 

Dorothy (with clasped hands). Oh, pray do not try to 
do it, you will hurt yourself; you must be bruised and 
strained already; and if you did knock it down they would 
put you in the Bargello. You know this is the king's 
palace ! 

8ir Oscar (laughing). They won't behead me; perhaps 
they'll behead the custode. Don't think I'm going to give 
in, I haven't got safe out of Egypt only to go down before 
a wooden door. (He tries again; and sends the panels 
fying in splinters.) There! I knew I should beat the 
confounded thing. Now you are free, my bonny bird. 
Will you run down the stairs and leave me here, or will 
jou prefer me to go and call them? 

Dorothy. Oh, how strong you are! How beautiful to 
be as strong as that! 

Sir Oscar (srniling), Hercules always wins by a head 
with you ladies. That unhappy door! it is only good to 
split up for matches; but I know all theEoyal household; 
they'll make it right. Why, you are paler than you were 
before! What is the matter? 

Dorothy (gathering up her colors and Irushes). I am 
only so glad, and it seems so wonderful to be as strong as 
you are! You rent the door as* I sliould paper. 

Sir Oscar, Not quite; it took me fifteen minutes. 



124 IN PITTI. 

Don't be in sucli a tremendous hurry. I — I — want to ask 
you something. 

Dorothy. I cannot wait a moment, indeed I cannot. I 
shall run all the way home. It must be nearly nine o'clock. 
Think of mamma! 

Sir Oscar, Yes; but I want a word, just a word, with 
you first before any one comes upstairs. They must have 
heard that row down below. Do wait one second; you 
can run off afterward as soon a3 j^ou please; but I must 
say it if I die for it. Half a day like this counts more 
than half a year, don't you think so? I don't know what 
you feel about me; I can't hope that you feel anything; 
but what I feel is just this — you please me more than any 
woman that ever lived. AVill you come and live at Rivaux? 
By G-eorge, there is the candle gone out! well, it served 
our time. My dear, don't be frightened; give me your 
hand; we will feel our way downstairs. But before we go 
out do answer me. 

Dorothy (agitated). It is quite dark! 

Sir Oscar, It is quite dark; but the nightingales find 
their tongues in the darkness, and so can you. 

Dorothy. We must speak to the custode. 

Sir Oscar, We must certainly speak to the custode — 
at least, I will, and forcibly — but first please speak to me. 
Of course you know very little about me, but your mother 
shall know everything. All you have to do, my dear, is: 
to tell me you don't dislike me! 

Dorothy. Dislike you? 

Sir Oscar. May I take you home? 

Dorothy {in a ivhisper). If you wish. 



THE ElirD. 



The Seaside Library. 

ORI>INARY EDITION. 



GEORGE MUNRO, Publisber, 

p. O. Box 3751. 17 to S7 Vandewater Sti'eet, New York. 



The following wor^s contained in The Seaside Library, Ordinary Edition, 
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j,o MRS. ALEXANDER'S WORKS. p^icb. 

80 Her Dearest Foe 20 

86 The Wooing O't 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton's Weir4 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

1281 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie's Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admirars Ward 20 

WILLIAM BLACK'S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire , 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilmeny 10 

53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale's Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Storv of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius , la 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

X429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People.. . , . 10 

1556 Shandon Bells. ...... ,.o..oc.o. ,. 20 

1683 Yolande .......... o., c » = . c o c c c o o ... c . c. ...,, e . 2© 



n THE SEASIDE LIBBABT.— Ordinary Edition, 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE'S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) , 20 

163 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor 10 

329 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

^098 Agnes Grey c 20 

MISS M. E. BRADDON'S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20. 

69 To the Bitter End * 20 

89 The Lovels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men's Shoes '20 

109 Eleanor's Victory , , 20 

114 Darrell Markham. . . c 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar ^. 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict , 20 

251 Lady Audley's Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

360 Charlotte's Inheritance o 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit , 20 

459 The Doctor's Wife .20 

469 Eupert Godwin 20 

481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard's Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper's Tenant , 20 

539 A Strange World : 20 

550 Feuton's Quest 20 

562 John Marchmont's Legacy 20 

572 The Lady's Mile .. 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims ; 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss K E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taiceu at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 Geor2:e Caulfield's Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh , 20 

701 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody's Daughter. Part 1 20 

^34 Diavola; or, Nobody's Daughter. Part IL ..,,.... 20 



TEE 8EASLDS! LIBBAUY.—Ordinary Edition. m 

MISS M. E. BKADDON'S WORKS.-Continued. 

811 Dudley Carleon IC 

828 The Fatal Marriage IG 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Misletoe Bough 20 

J265 Mount Roval 20 

1469 Flower and Weed , 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 Married in Haste (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

EHODA BEOUGHTONS WORKS. 

186 " Good-Bye, Sweetheart " „ 10 

269 Red as a Rose is She 20 

S85 Cometh Up as a Flower , 10 

402 '♦ Not Wisely, But Too Well" 20 

458 Nancy 20 

526 Joan 20 

762 Second Thoughts ,.... 20 

WILKIE COLLINS' WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White „ 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

82 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady's Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies IQ 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 ARogue'sLife 10 

551 The Yellow Mask. 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

654 Poor Miss Finch , 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel's Daughter , 20 

713 The Captain's Last Love 10 

. 721 Basil..' 20 

745 The Mas ic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Heme Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep - .... 10 

&90 The Black Robe c.^*... 20 

3164 Your Money or Your Life , , . 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time. ..,,,.. ^ 



J 



JT TBE SF£ ASIDE LIBRARY.— Ordinary Edition. 

J. FENIMORE COOPER'S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 2d 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie , 20 

233 The Pilot - , 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals ,.., 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wingand-Wing ...., 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to "Afloat and Ashore") 20 

1569 The Headsman; or, The Abbaye des Vignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan's Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop. , 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

102 Hard Times .10 

118 Great Expectations 20 

187 David Copperfield 20 

200 Nicholas Nickleby 20 ~ 

313 Barnaby Rudge 20 

218 Dombey and Son 20 

239 No Thoroughfare (Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins) 10 

347 Martin Chuzzlewit 20 

272 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

284 Oliver Twist 20 

289 A Christmas Carol 10 

297 The Haunted Man 10 

304 Little Dorrit 20 

308 The Chimes 10 

317 The Battle of Life , 10 

325 Our Mutual Friend 20 

337 Bleak House 20 

352 Pickwick Papers . . 20 

359 Somebody's Luirgage 10 

367 Mrs. Lirriper's Lodgings 10 

372 Lazy Tour of Two Idle Apprentices 10 

375 Mugby Junction. 10 

403 Tom Tiddler's Ground 10 

498 The Uncommercial Traveler 20 

521 Master Humphrey's Clock 10 

625 Sketches by Boz 20 

639 Sketches of Young Couples 10 

837 The Mudfog Papers, «fcc , ,.,.,...,,,., 10 



The Seaside Library. 



POCKET EDITION. 



NO PRICE. 

1 Yolande. By William Black :^0 

2 Mollv Bawn. By " The Duchess ". . . . 20 

3 Tlie Mill on the Floss. By George Eliot 20 

4 Under Two Flags. By '• Ouida " 20 

5 Admiral's Ward. By Mrs. Alexande<r.. 20 

6 Portia. By " The Duchess " 20 

7 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

8 East Lynne. B7 Mrs. Henry Wood. ... 20 

9 Wanda. By " Ouida " 20 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. By Dickens. 20 

11 JohnHaliCax, Gentleman. Miss Mulock 20 

12 Other People's Money. By Gaboriau. 2G 

13 Eyre s Acquittal. By Helen B. Mathers 10 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian. By " The Duchess " 20 

15 Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte 20 

16 Phyllis. By " The Duchess " 20 

17 The Wooing Ot By Mrs. Alexander. .. 20 

18 Shandon Bells. By William Black. ... 20 

19 Her Mother's Sin. By the Author of 

" Dora Thorne " 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life. By Emile 

Gaboriau 20 

21 Sunrise. By William Black 20 

22 David Copperfield. Dickens. Vol.1.. 20 

22 David Copperfield. Dickens. Vol. H. 20 

23 A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol.1... 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Dickens. Vol. IL . 20 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey. By " The Duchess "... 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. I 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. By Gaboriau. Vol. H. 20 

27 Vanity Fair. By William M. Thackeray 20 

28 Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

I Beauty's Daughters. " The Duchess " 20 

I Faith and Unfaith. By " The Duchess " 20 

31 Middlemarch. By George Eliot 20 

32 The Land Leaguers. Anthony TroUope 20 

33 The Clique of Gold. By Emile Gaboriau 20 

34 Daniel Deronda. By George Eliot ... 30 

35 Lady Audley's Secret. Miss Braddon 20 

36 Adam Bede. By George Eliot 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dickens 30 

38 The Widow Lerbuge. By Gaboriau. . 20 

39 In Silk Attire. By William Black 20 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii. By Sir E. 

Bulwer Lytton 20 

41 Oliver Twist. By Charles Dickens. . . . 20 

42 Romola. By George Eliot 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. Gaboriau. .20 

44 Macleod of Dare. By William Black . . 20 

45 A Little Pilgrim. By Mrs. Oliphant. . . 10 

46 Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade. . 20 

47 Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant. . 20 

48 Thicker Than Water. By James Payn. 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. By Black... .20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton. 

By William Black 20 

51 Dora Thorne. By the Author of " Her 

Mother's Sin " 20 

52 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie CoHins 20 

53 The Story of Ida. By Francesca 10 

54 A Broken Wedding Ring. By the Au- 
thor of " Dora Thorne " 



NO. J 

56 Phantom Fortune. Miss Braddon 

57 Shirley. By Charlotte Bronte. . 

58 By the Gate of the Sea. By Murn 
.59 Vice Versa. By F. Anste.v •' 

60 The Last of the Mohicans. Cooper 

61 Charlotte Temple. By Mis. Rowsoi 

62 The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander, 

63 The Spy. By J. Jeiiimore Cooper 

64 A Maiden Fair. By Charles Gibbon 

65 Back to the Old Home. By M. C. Hai 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young Mai^ 

By Octave Feuillet ' 

67 LornaDoone. By R D. Blackmore. 

68 A Queen Amongst Women. By thJ 

Author of " Dora Thorne " 

69 Madolin's Lover. By the Author 

"Dora Thorne " 

70 White Wings. By William Black 

71 A Struggle for Fame. Mrs. Riddell.J 

72 Old My ddelton's Money. ByM. C Hay 

73 Redeemed by Love. By the Author of 

" Dora Thorne " 

.74 Aurora Floyd. By Miss M. E. Braddon 

75 Twenty Years After. By Dumas.. ^ 

76 Wife in Name Only. By the Author oi 

" Dora Thorne " 

77 A Tale of Two Cities. By Dickens .... 

78 Madcap Violet. By William Black... 

79 Wedded and Parted. By the Authoi 

of " Dora Thorne " 

80 June. By Mi's. Forrester 

81 A Daughter of Heth. By Wm. Black 

82 Sealed Lips. By F. Du Boisgobey. .. 

83 A Strange Story. Bulwer Lytton 

84 Hard Times. By Charles Dickens. . 

85 A Sea Queen. By W. Clark Russell. 

86 Belinda. By Rhoda Broughton 

87 Dick Sand ; or, A Captain at Fifteen 

By Jules Verne 

88 The Privateersman. Captain Marrya 

89 The Red Eric. By R. M. Ballautyne 

90 Ernest Maltravers. Bulwer Lytton . 

91 Barnaby Rudge. B3' Charles Dickens 

92 Lord Lynne 's Choice. By the Autho 

of " bora Thorne " 

93 Anthony Trollope's Autobiography 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. . 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M. Ballantyn 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Ballantyn 

97 All in a Garden Fair. Walter Besant 

98 A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade 

99 Barbara's History. A.B.Edwards. 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. B, 

Jules Verne 

101 Second Thoughts. Rhoda Broughto 
lOi The Moonstone. By Wilkie Collins. 

103 Rose Fleming. By Dora Russell. . . 

104 The Coral Pin. By F. Du Boisgobej 

105 A Noble Wife. By John Saunders. . 

106 Bleak House. By Charles Dickens. 

107 Dombey and Son. Charles Dickens 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth and Doct( 
Marigold. By Charles Dickens. . 



55 The Three Guardsmen, By Dumas. . . 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 
P. O. Box 3751. ir to ar Vandewater Street, New Yor 



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